The Shattered Road
by RedSword12
Summary: Robert Baratheon and Prince Rhaegar are dead. True peace, however, remains elusive, as former rebels scatter to the winds, or rally to their homelands. And even amongst the men loyal to the Dragon, there are men with daggers in hand.
1. Prologue: The Beginning of the End

**Prologue**: _The Beginning of the End_

Banners lined the ridge beneath the red dragon, flapping in the cold breeze over Rhaegar's host. Far, far to Ned's right, distant black wisps of smoke signaled the impending arrival of Tywin Lannister's host on Robert's right flank as it burned its way across Lord Piper's lands. Ned looked back at the men arraying in the shallow valley below, shaking off his concerns. Robert had chosen to give battle well before the Targaryen and Lannister hosts could unite against him, and waiting would only make things worse.

Lords Ryswell, Bolton, and Dustin commanded the van and reserves on the left, a staggered lance of a column, aimed at the troop-encrusted sept-hill anchoring the loyalist position. Ned himself would hold overall rein over the near ten thousand Northerners filing up behind them. Robert had already joined the men in the valley and would lead from the center, and hopefully find Rhaegar Targaryen under his personal banners, which hung faintly visible across from his own. Yet further right, outside of view behind a grass-laden spur, Hoster Tully commanded the reserve behind a makeshift fortification of supply wagons that Robert had suggested. The over seven thousand men under Hoster's direct command were hopefully men of distinction. Brynden Tully was among them, though his unfavorable views of the Rebellion itself had consigned him to a low rank, for Lord Tully distrusted him ever since he'd made them clear.

Uncertainties aside, it was not long before northern warhorns and southern trumpets sounded across the line and the advance began. Ned and his men trod across the field at an easy pace. Further left, the huge column of knights and heavy lancers hooved its way left as the Targaryen heavy horse revealed itself over the crest of the ridge, waiting. Rhaegar's foot soldiers did not budge. Halfway up the slope, Robert's soldiers surged ahead with the roar of a hundred trumpets. _Damned hot Stormlander blood_, Ned almost thought, before remembering Robert's war council the night before. For a tense minute, Robert's line bulged forward with his personal banners at the head, but the Targaryen loyalist line refused the challenge. Then Rhaegar took the bait.

Trumpets echoed in the valley once more. The Targaryen surged down the rolling slopes like water and then they were upon him. Ned lowered his visor and cut down the first Reachman before him with a single strike as the hapless soldier's comrades rushed to his aid, too late. One swung his shield forward to blind him and his mates thrust at him with their points. Ice cleft the shafts and blades in two and smacked the shield's rim with the flat, knocking it aside by sheer weight. Ned was too fast for its bearer and hacked deep into his shoulder, kicking him off the blade. Soon the lines tightened up on both sides and Ned retired to the rear, mounting a horse from his guards. Slugging it out in the mud was not his idea of winning a battle. It seemed the Northerners and their foe were evenly matched, despite the slopes, for now. It was better further towards the center, where Robert's personal battle flag waved above the crest of the ridge defiantly amongst a sea of friends and foes. Even now, those of his bannermen slowly wrestled loyalist banners aside and the mounted reserve followed close behind. Robert and Jon Arryn's heavily-armored Valemen and Stormlanders had made short work of the Dornish and Crownland levies. _The enemy must have broken their own formation in the counter-charge,_he thought. One of Ned's guards had pointed out the silver-black dragon banner of Rhaegar Targaryen amongst the cavalry, which was engaged in a heated battle on the left flank, but now detached itself and slithered over the battlefield, Jon Connington's griffin sigil waving in tow. He meant to challenge Robert, Ned decided. It was a quick assumption, but only the death of Robert would push his men from their deathgrip on the crest. And Rhaegar would seek it.

"Robert may not need my help," Ned said, "But I will be damned if I leave him to fight alone Lyanna's raper" Rodrik Cassel chuckled grimly.

"The King is with his best knights. But if his Lordship pleases, same for us to you, and we must follow."

Ned took one last look at his Northerners. The infantry lines pushed and shoved with no clear winner. Further left, Roose Bolton and his goodfather's heavy horse retreated down the hillside with the Reachers on their tail, and then Wyman Manderly's knights couched their ribbon-laced lances and plunged into the overextended flank of their southern counterparts. Lord William Dustin's lancers of the reserve trotted forward, ready to plug the gap that their fellows had left.

"The men will think I'm deserting them if they see me leave."

Ser Donnel Locke nudged his horse a step up. "Let me take your helm and crest, then. I am close to your age enough, and a cousin of yours twice-removed besides." Ned remembered the expectant faces of the lords. Bolton. The Greatjon. Karstark. They would disapprove. Letting Robert die on the field alone was worse, though, than disappointing them. Ned looked briefly for observers, and finding none, unclasped the brooch on his grey cloak and surcoat. Donnel did the same and they traded their cloths of heraldry, as Ned fumbled with his greathelm.

"If they ask why Ser Donnel Locke rode away," Ned said, "Tell them he was a messenger. If they ask for Ned's command, ask of them their advice. They will think none of it." Donnel put on Ned's helm over his head f ollowing the cloak and wolf-embroidered surcoat, nodding.

"I will, my Lord. But what of your sword?" Ned thought for a moment.

"Draw your sword only if you must, and that comes to pass, wield it with skill and speed to mask its subtle features." Ned drew Ice from his saddleside sheath. The blade glinted dark as smoke all along its long length. Donnel drew his own longsword. It was two forearms shorter than Ice, and two fingers less wide, but otherwise passable.

"Close enough." Ned gestured to his other guards. "I will leave it at that. You two, come with me. The rest, defend my cousin as if he were my son." Ned turned and spurred his horse, his chosen men in tow.

Wounded men and trumpeters wandered up and down the slopes, seeking healers or a lord's retinue to follow. Ned paid them no heed. His eyes were fixed on what was happening at the crest of the ridge, where the fighting raged back and forth. The Baratheon stag banner flailed in the center of it all, in a deadly dance with the dragon sigil. He urged his steed faster.

Jon Arryn waited with the Vale knights of the mounted reserve, just behind the line. He turned at Ned's approach, raising his eyebrows.

"Were you not appointed to defend my ward?" Ned nodded.

"And sent to speak with the other, my Lord."

"On your way then and get back to Ned… Just a moment. _What _is this message you wish to pass to him?" Ned exhaled in his helm. Why did he choose this very moment to ask a question, in the critical part of the battle? But he answered.

"The battle goes well enough for Lord Stark. Lord Manderly and Dustin are committed, and Bolton and Ryswell are catching their breath. The Reachmen charged but were taken in the flank and routed." Jon Arryn smiled thinly.

"Good. Robert may be in need of a hammer soon, so tell your Lord that as soon as the Prince's knights are routed, he should aim his next cavalry assault on the center to aid King Robert."

"Aye, then. I have a message to deliver." Ned looked up the hill as he left his foster-father behind. Robert's banner swung and moved more feverishly than before, unless he was imagining it. He spurred his horse to the back of the line, weaving around the pike squares marching to the chaos. At some point his steed simply could not get past the throngs of soldiers, so Ned dismounted and drew Ice from its saddle-side scabbard. Unhesitating, he then proceeded on foot through the pressing throng of men who, noticing the heraldry, drew aside to let him through. Craning his neck every several steps he was able to make his way to Robert.

A copper antler stuck out above the melee—It was Robert! Ned hastened his pace. A knight was dragged back past him shrieking bloody murder, arms hanging limply from a smashed shoulder encased in a shattered steel pauldron. Ned finally reached Robert as he was busy wrestling another knight to the ground as Baratheon guards around the fight locked shields to prevent Targaryen soldiers from coming to his aid. Ned thrust Ice into the armpit of Robert's assailant like with a spear. Red, more blood, gushed from the new wound into the thick puddles in the trampled mud and snow. Robert looked up.

"Why did you do that?" he said. "He was a knight, _Gods_… I was planning on letting him live." Ned looked down at the twitching, dying man's surcoat, and understood.

"Killing Lord Lychester's firstborn son was my mistake," Ned admitted, his heart sinking. Hoster Tully had promised that Lord Lychester's loyalist son would be captured alive and returned to him. There was no hope of that now.

"By the Seven, Ned, is that you?" Robert climbed to his feet. Ned took off his helm. "You should be with your men on the left flank."

"I saw Rhaegar's personal banner coming this way, and I wanted to meet him with you at my side. How goes the battle?"

"I would ask the same of you, but I will face him alone lest he ask his Kingsguard to join him." Robert picked up a spear and flung it amidst the Targaryen men roiling further downhill that wrestled with his thinning battle-guard.

"The foot merely holds but the cavalry caught some of the enemy knights in the flank." Robert nodded, his face hidden behind his helm.

"Send the word down to Jon Arryn that I need reinforcements here, now. Why are you looking like that?"

The horseshoe of Robert's men suddenly crumpled with the thunder of hoofbeats and a man in black armor on a black horse burst on the scene, mace and shield in hands encased in ashen steel. Rubies crusted his breastplate in a band split in three strands, and a cloak of red and black swung over his shoulder as he sprung from his black horse. Rhaegar had come. Targaryen soldiers stepped back from their fight with the Baratheon men, silently offering a parlay of sorts to the few of their nearby foes remaining. Rhaegar wanted single combat. And Robert gave it.

"Leave him to me!" Robert roared, and charged. "I will avenge my betrothed on this singing snake myself." The Prince brought his shield up and stepped back, raising his mace over his head. Robert's hammer changed direction at the last blink and delivered a blow to the rim of Rhaegar's shield that sent the arm bearing it and wooden splinters flying. Rhaegar sidestepped and struck at Robert's forearm, ducking below the next hammer-blow.

"Curse you!" Robert kicked Rhaegar between his legs, and grabbed the Prince's shield arm above the elbow as he doubled over. Rhaegar had some fight still in him, and rammed his shoulder into his enemy's waist. The two men went down flailing, rolling. Robert wrestled a dagger from Rhaegar's right hand, which had long since lost its mace. Rhaegar screamed when Robert managed to thrust it through his side between the plates, and rolled out of Robert's attempt to wrestle him down.

Ned watched a few steps away with the ring of soldiers friend and foe. Jon Connington stood a few steps away doing the same, gripping a bloody halberd with trembling fingers. Was he going to interfere? Robert picked up his weapon as Rhaegar, Jon Connington's "silver prince," as Connington had called him at Harrenhal, drew his sword. Robert stepped forward and rained blows on the Prince's frantic defense. His hammer was swift as a snake, thundering against plate and sharpened steel, and each blow landed was like a poisoned bite. Rhaegar nevertheless kept his footing, and managed to draw blood with a stab at Robert's right leg. Jon Connington leaned forward.

Robert ignored it and slammed his hammer into Rhaegar's breastplate. Rhaegar fell. Connington snapped. Robert stepped on Rhaegar's chest, raising his hammer. Ned threw himself forward, throwing Ice in a guard over his head. In a moment Jon was there, hacking, stabbing, shouting for help. Robert's foot slipped from the bloody chestplate and Steffon's firstborn fell. The spell that held the soldiers at bay from the duel broke. Rhaegar's men swarmed at Robert and their Prince like a flood as Baratheon and Arryn men-at-arms surged forward to as well to protect their lord, and in the press Robert disappeared. Ned beheaded one knight, cut off the hand of another, but no matter how many he slew there was another three between him and where he had seen Robert last. His white Stark surcoat was scarlet now, and the wolf was a lion. The men before him yielded at last to his slowing blows and Jon Connington stepped forward from the press with his visor raised, red hair rolling down his shoulders like a shroud. Once again Targaryen men around cleared away, followed by their adversaries. Robert's hammer splashed in the blood at Ned's feet among the corpses.

"Robert Baratheon is dead, Stark." Connington recognized Ice. He looked at Ned's surcoat, raising his eyebrows. "You wear the colors of another man? I did not see you when I slew a knight bearing your armor. Lay down your arms. There is no more need for further bloodshed." Ice's tip darted at the griffin on his chest. Jon's longsword warded it aside.

"Why?" Ned pulled Ice back with no reply, leveling its point at the Targaryen men around him, then back at him. Very few Baratheon men remained, even behind him. He was almost alone now. Who remained now to avenge the elder Starks? That end was all that was left to Ned now, for even escape had deserted him. Jon Connington stepped forward, leveling his point at him across his shoulder. Then he finally replied.

"My Prince wanted his good-brother to live." He struck first this time, giving no time for Ned to think of a reply. The knight of Griffin's Roost wove his sword around Ned's guard again and again and again, searching, searching. Ice was too long for dueling of this sort and Jon inevitably found an opening. Ned stepped back to evade a thrust and felt the winter cold bite into his flesh. Then again, then again. Ned fell. His knees on the ground throbbed against his armor and he felt blood running down his side. Jon looked down at him. He kicked Ice from Ned's hands.

"Yield."

"My sister is avenged?" Jon Connington glared, but nodded. Ned slipped his hand behind his back.

"Do you yield?"

"My father and brother…" He drew his dagger and lunged… "Wait still!" Jon cut him down. Ned fell, vainly clutching the deep wound in his shoulder, trying to stem the tide of blood. He was too weak to speak. Jon picked up Ice.

"My Prince is with them. Tell him..." He raised the massive blade above Ned's chest. "Forgive me." Death fell.

* * *

Author's Note: _This story will for the most part retain ASOIAF characters as its core—That is, I will follow primarily existing characters if I can. _This is my first timeline, but I hope to get the next chapter out in the middling-near future. Feel free to give your opinions and predictions if you like!__

Credit for the cover image goes to Adjiklam (who is not associated to me whatsoever), who permitted usage of it under the Creative Commons Attribution ShareAlike 3.0 license, which stipulates proper attribution to the author as a term of usage. (I do think I am overdoing it here, but I don't want to ever get sued over this, however unlikely that may be.)


	2. Chapter 1: The Paths Ahead

**Chapter 1**: _The Paths Ahead_

Tywin Lannister arrived too late for Rhaegar. The Dornish and Reachmen that made up the right were routed by a hammer-and-anvil charge of the Northern horse, and the center was hanging in the balance, for the commanders of both had been slain, when the riders of the Westerlands revealed themselves from the woods behind, near the forest of tents that made up Rhaegar's camp. They bore the Baratheon banner with them; the colors were easier to make out than the stag on the field of gold, but there was no mistaking it.

"Traitorous bastard…" What underhanded bargain had been made to make the former Hand of the King betray the Prince? Jon Connington turned his steed around. All remaining reserves had been committed to stave off Ned Stark's Northerners from continuing their turning of the flank, and there were no guards near. Tywin Lannister's personal banner, a sail over land embroidered with gold and scarlet, stood out from its fellows. Jon would have to reason with him personally if there was to be any chance of winning the battle, however distasteful treating with such a man was to him. To reach him though… taking his lordly banner would give him some protection under the oft-broken rules of war; at the very least Tywin Lannister hesitate before killing a hostage of Jon's value.

But his personal banner hung deep in the melee and there was scant chance of retrieving it. _Seven Hells, just when I need one…_Ser Barristan Selmy was near the banner itself, inspiring the men with his ability to kill. Taking him away would risk causing the thoroughly bent battle line to buckle, not to mention it would be difficult to begin with.

Jon looked at the field around him. All men who were not groaning or dead on the ground were in the fight now, their eyes fixed to the foe at hand. He would not be seen if he left, let alone recognized, so his lone departure would not inspire them into flight. Seven willing.

He made sure his bloodied longsword was sheathed, and hung from his saddle the freakishly large Valyrian Steel blade he'd taken from Lord Stark's corpse. Riding at Lord Lannister with a bared weapon would get him killed. With a prayer to the Father, he spurred his horse toward the Lannister horsemen making ready to charge at the rear of the wavering Targaryen lines. As he drew closer he could make out a lone man in golden armor leading the thousands sallying forth from the forest's concealment. It could only be Tywin Lannister, surely.

Two knights, bearing the Lannister and Baratheon banners respectively, pointed at Jon and rode up to a stop a lance-length in front of their leader. Jon slowed his horse to a trot and squinted. Golden hair to the ear, close-shaven beard… There was no mistaking Tywin Lannister, it was him.

"Who are you that would block the honorable Lord Lannister's way?" One of the two lifted his visor, fumbling with the massive shaft holding up Robert's banner. Jon laughed inside at the sight and the knight's words. Honorable?

Nevertheless, he said, "I am Jon Connington, Lord of Griffin's Roost, and friend of the honorable Prince Rhaegar. Robert is slain but his army remains on the field!" Tywin Lannister nudged his steed into a slow trot, until a meter separated them. He eyed Jon suspiciously.

"I see your men are losing the battle. Is Rhaegar dead? Did Robert kill him?"

Jon took a deep breath. "All the better reason to save his grace, my lord." He winced at the lie, but perhaps Lord Lannister had not noticed. He was known to search men's faces like hair for fleas, and as such Jon could not be sure of it.

Tywin Lannister's face remained stone, like his heart. After a long pause, the old lion looked back at the silent shining ranks of his knights. A cold wind whispered across the plain in Jon's ear, and there was not a word to hear.

"Go on! This war could be ended right here and now. Look!" Jon pointed to Ned Stark's greatsword, Ice. "I slew Lord Stark myself and took his blade from beside Robert's hammer. Need you more proof?" Tywin glared like he'd been stung.

"Where is the hammer then? If Robert and Ned are slain then why do their men remain on the field, winning, it seems?"

"Men are dying for their… prince, in the hundreds… And you stand here asking after the armory?" If he hadn't stopped himself at the last second, he would have given that treacherous Hand a finger pointing directions to the nearest one.

Tywin narrowed his eyes. "I wanted proof of Robert's death." _Gods, why didn't I bring that forsaken hammer, _Jon thought angrily. He swallowed the thoughts welling up in his mouth and said, "Will you be Prince Rhaegar's Hand and savior or the latecomer to a foregone conclusion? The late Lord Stark's Valyrian Steel sword will be yours." Try as he might, Jon could not discern the reply. If an appeal to his scruples would not work, then perhaps one to his renowned pride would convince him? And if pride was not enough, then nothing was enough. The Lord of Casterly Rock considered for a long moment in silence. Jon's skin felt cold. If all advice was rebuffed, he would have no recourse but to try at least to chasten this traitor with steel before he was killed.

"I will do as I see fit," Tywin Lannister at last said. He looked over his shoulder, at his soldiers. His guards observed Jon through the slits in their massive helms. Their master looked Jon in the eye, and struck Robert Baratheon's banner from his bannerman's hands. The whole army shook.

"To the Prince!" Tywin Lannister rode forward and drew Ice from Jon's saddle as trumpets beyond count roared over the winter wind and sounds of battle. He would be disappointed soon, but it did not matter now. Thousands of knights ahorse spurred their steeds on and Jon was amongst them all, roaring battle-cries. Belatedly he spotted the vast Targaryen banner unfurled over them all, as if Robert's accursed standard had never been there. It was too late to think further as the distance rapidly closed. Northerners battering away at Barristan and his steadfast men, turned at the thundering of a thousand steeds galloping headlong toward their ranks. Their hearts broke and they turned their backs to flee in vain. Jon spit the first rebel horseman he encountered upon his sword, but there was no time to watch him fall, for in the next instant a foot soldier was in his path and he cut him down too. There was scarce time for the use of weapons sheer weight of numbers transformed the whole mass of horses and riders into a weapon of its own, trampling to death those few unlucky ones that were not killed outright upon a lance.

Soon the slopes and the foot of the valley were clogged with the mutilated corpses of Northerners as those remaining fled in all directions. Bloodlust would have had the riders hunt down and slay them all, but alas their lord knew better and his bannermen rallied the knights back in time to meet the furious charge of Jon Arryn's knights of the Vale, who had arrived only to see their comrades butchered.

The glory of the initial charge died a quick death in that melee. A deflected lance left Jon's side throbbing with every movement, and after that it he could only defend himself. Swords were of little use in the thick press of horses and men, such that he occasionally glimpsed men wrestling their opponents out of their saddles, and either falling with their foe with a dagger in hand, or spurring their horses to trample them. Other men resorted to killing their foes' steeds themselves, with brutal stabs through the eyes or muscled flanks that added to the chaos the screams of wounded horses.

He knew not whether it was hours or minutes later, but at last the Valemen gave way, rushing where they could to the Rebel camp, where some men had rallied behind hastily-erected defenses. The knights of the Westerlands hacked at their heels all the way there, but with three blows of the trumpet they at last retreated. Jon kept out of the fight after that and contented himself with nursing his bruised side, satisfied with watching fresh columns of troops overthrow the rebels' stalwart defense of their wagon-wall, and then the rebel camp itself.

Lord Bolton and his men were the first to throw down their arms. Brynden Tully, that hero of the Ninepenny War, was not far behind, if what the men said was true. Not an hour after the rout of Robert's remaining forces, all the rank and file laid down their arms and threw their standards to the grass. Hoster Tully was captured trying to hack his way out of the encirclement with his few remaining retainers along with Lord Umber, who was slain while trying to retrieve his son from the jaws of the Lannisters. The elderly Jon Arryn was found fallen from his horse in the field, and brought forth in chains. It was all a sorry sight.

The Rebellion died with a whimper that day, kicked to death by a thousand boots as it lay on the field in a mud of its own blood. Jon and the other victorious nobles held a farce of a war council that evening around a roaring fire, after their respective maesters had tended to their wounds. Jon could not help but notice as the nobles filed in, that Tywin Lannister had found himself the largest seat in the camp. It was a throne of sorts, inlaid with gold. _Subtle_, Jon thought, as he seated himself as far away from the man and his throng of underlings as he could without being obvious. A third of the circle's length away seemed a good compromise.

"The first question is what shall be done to the prisoners," Jon started, when all had settled. Tywin Lannister waved his unbandaged hand at guards behind him, who hauled the captives forward into the firelight and forced them to their knees in a group, under the glaring stares of their captors.

"We will use them to end the war." It was the obvious thing for him to say, but Jon wished he'd had the opportunity to say it first. Now the former Hand of the King, infamous for his ability to take control of a conversation, and if he did that here, he might as well be able to do whatever he wanted. Tywin Lannister continued, pointing at the captives as he listed them one by one. "We have eight petty lords captive: Lord Roose Bolton, the new Lord Umber, Lord William Dustin, Lord Rickard Karstark, Lord Wyman Manderly, Lord Rodrik Ryswell, Lord Lymond Lychester, and Lord Jason Mallister." He paused for another breath. "Moreover, we have the traitors…" Five bound men were kicked from amongst their fellows. "Lord Lyonel Corbray, Lord Gerold Grafton, Lord Phillip Cafferen, Lord Edmund Fell, Lord Harys Grandison, and Hoster Tully."

"We should deal with the traitors harshly. A man who turns his edge twice is not to be trusted, not even in a cell," Symond Darry said from his stool beside Jon. "A rumble of agreement passed through the men, though those from the Westerlands remained silent, watching their lord intently for a signal to join in. He gave none.

"Gerold Grafton and Edmund Fell were compelled by force," Tywin said, "to swear themselves to Robert's cause." He looked around, in an obvious sign for his bannermen to nod. Once they did, he continued, "Let us not sell the King's Justice rashly. They are deserving of clemency, and Ser Brynden Tully also, for his services in the last rebellion." His men did what their lord asked of them and nodded. Jon joined them grudgingly with some of Rhaegar's closer allies. Brynden, Gerold, and Edmund stood up as guards led them to chairs that servants had surprisingly quickly brought for them. _All arranged beforehand_, Jon thought glumly. It did not beg much thought to realize by whom.

"Mercy!" Lord Cafferen suddenly stumbled out of the ring of guards, who permitted him an arms' length from his fellows. "Robert took me prisoner at Summerhall and threatened me with torture unless I gave my word to join his cause!" He fell to his knees, shaking.

Tywin glared down at the miserable wreck of a man Phillip Cafferen had become.

"You beg for mercy?" Phillip nodded.

"I will ask the King to consider it." The prisoner wailed and wept as guards kicked him back in amongst his fellows huddled beside the fire. The King was well-known for his fiery brand of mercy. Jon looked at the prisoner he recognized as Harys Grandison, wondering whether he would attempt the same. Harys looked back for a moment, then looked to the ground.

"Will any more beggars stand forth, if they please? Your days are numbered, so speak up if you will." None spoke a word.

"No one?" Tywin nodded. "Back to the question at hand, then, I propose that the rebels who were not turncoats be spared and used as hostages."

"So you seek to usurp the King's say in all this?" Jon said.

"Where Prince Rhaegar could be trusted to decide their fates with wisdom, his father has shown none. You asked what was to be done with the prisoners, and I have spoken." Tywin gestured at the captives. "We spare those worthy of living, and ask the King to decide the fates of the traitors."

Brynden Tully spoke up.

"I spoke to my brother against joining Robert… After much consideration he rejected my advice, but I beg you listen, and spare his life. He believed Robert Baratheon was in the right, and was incensed by the murder of his dear daughter's betrothed." The Blackfish, famed for his fortitude, shook. "If his anger was not righteous, at least spare his life and send him to the Wall where I suppose I shall spend the remainder of my days. He does not deserve death." The fire crackled at his back as he stood. Jon could not help but feel sympathy for the poor knight's position. His brother a traitor, at the mercy of a dragon and a lion…

"Rhaegar willed that his foes be spared," Jon said. It was not a lie. Rhaegar had said hopefully that he would be able to spare as many rebel lives as possible, once they were beaten. It stung Jon that he had failed to save Ned, forced instead to grant him a mercifully quick death.

"And spared they will be, those who were not wholly devoid of fidelity" Tywin replied. The harsher lords not under his banner muttered a little but could not disagree openly. He turned to Brynden. "We will see to it that your brother is spared. The King will have good reason to listen." There was yet more angry grumbling as more and more nobles realized that he was acting like their appointed leader, which he was most certainly not, having arrived on the field bearing Baratheon colors, of all things, though Lord Lannister had of course claimed it had all been a ruse. He had convinced most of the lords of it, certainly. Those sheep were ready to believe anything if it improved their position.

"Do you give your word?" Brynden did not seem to believe it.

"I will do what I can to see it done," Tywin said, with a tone of finality, convincing the Blackfish to return to his seat in silence. _Mercy from Tywin Lannister? That rings true, _Jon thought. The Reynes and Tarbecks could attest to that. _And now the rivers weep o'er his hall, and not a soul to hear…_He almost pitied the Tully brothers, until remembering what they had done. Lord Mathis Rowan broke the silence and said, "What of Jon Arryn, who denied His Grace custody of his wards' heads?"

"To the Wall with him," Symond Darry said immediately. Jon found himself nodding with the others, and said, "Then we should name his fellow prisoner and heir, Ser Denys Arryn, the new Lord Paramount of the Vale. Provided he provides us a close relative as a hostage in return."

"I agree," Tywin said. "Jon Arryn does not deserve death, but is too shrewd a man to be trusted south of the Wall."

"Aye."

"Indeed."

The nobles all around expressed their agreement. Jon hoped that meant they stood behind him, and not Lord Lannister.

"So it is settled, then, what will be done to the prisoners? Does that mean it is over?" The aging Lord Mooton yawned. Jon glared daggers at him, but it seemed the lords had had enough. Everyone except Jon Connington expressed their agreement and climbed to their feet, including Tywin. The man must have been smiling under his beard at how nicely the council had went for him. The Loyalist lords who were not of the Westerlands, were either too tired or just did not care enough to resist Tywin's seizure of power in the camp, at least for this night. Jon climbed irately to his feet as his fellows slowly dispersed. _What a disaster_, he thought as he made his way back to his tent, skirting around mobs of drinking, whoring soldiers. At last he collapsed into his bedroll, exhausted. House Targaryen had won on the field but was losing the Realm.


	3. Chapter 2: Whose Death Kills Less?

**Chapter 2**: _Whose Death Will Kill the Least?_

"I would sooner raid the North and Riverlands, ill quarry that they are, than risk the wrath of the King." Lord Quellon Greyjoy's face was hard-set, his eyes even more so, as he looked down from the Seastone Chair at the tall men who were his sons. Alyn Wodryke, his wife's maester, did his best to hide his worried face under his beard. Balon, the eldest of them all since Harlon had died, could not contain himself, and said, "Your grandfather Dagon Greyjoy reaved how he wished for years. The Ironborn may rise again, Father. The greenlanders are divided, and we are strong. If we combine our strength with the Rebellion, they will never reach Pyke, and we shall pay the Iron Price where we please."

Lord Greyjoy scowled and turned his head away, crossing his arms.

"Dagon Greyjoy was 'The Last Reaver for good reason. He overreached himself when he tried his hand at raiding and raping the whole continent."

"He rebelled against the Seven Kingdoms, not a maddened fool," Balon said.

"So you admit he was a fool himself?" Quellon shouted, glaring back at his sons, but with a cunning glint in his eye. "That his example should not be followed?" Balon looked at his brothers, all of whom but Euron shook their heads.

"We would face but half the Realm. The Redwyne fleet has long departed, no doubt headed to prevent the rebels from hiring Essosi mercenaries. Should we declare against the Crown, the whole of the Reach lies open to us to reave unopposed, and the Westerlands almost as much. The Lannisport fleet is but weak, and cannot challenge us at sea."

"You say we reave Tywin Lannister's lands unopposed, then speak of his fleet? You refute your own argument, Son. And provoking Tywin Lannister to war against us on the side of the Crown would of the utmost folly. I do not believe your words are of any true worth."

"We can outrun his fleet and destroy it as we wish," Balon said. "But we need not attack the Westerlands unless Lord Lannister declares for the Crown. The easier plunder is further south, in the Arbor and up the Mander, where Mace Tyrell has stripped the land of soldiers."

"Lord Redwyne's absence would be but a temporary respite. He will return, with the Royal Fleet at his back in time. Robert Baratheon cannot win this war, and neither shall we."

"We have the winds of fortune in our sails and you refuse to embark? _Greenlander_," Balon spat. Alyn winced.

"Out!" Quellon shouted. "All of you!" Alyn gathered his robes and tucked his hands into his pockets, looking for his flask of watered wine as the Greyjoy brothers began bowing out of the room, exchanging looks of disgust. All except Euron. "You!" Knowing well the risk, Alyn looked, resigned to a shouting treatment, but was relieved when Quellon pointed at Euron. "I will have a word with you." Alyn resumed his slow tread to the door. "And you as well, Maester Wodryke." Alyn slowly turned and, sighing, marched back to his lord, knowing well the consequences of disobedience. "Come." Lord Greyjoy led the two to his solar, a good walk across two stone bridges, through a short tunnel through the rock, and a rope bridge, the last of which Alyn could scarcely bring himself to cross with his age. The short stroll hundreds of feet above the roaring surf mercifully ended at the rust-hinged, rotting ironwood door to the Sea Tower, which Quellon worked at with a shiny silver key until it fell open to a dim twisting spiral staircase, which Alyn from experience recalled led to the solar. Lord Greyjoy continued up with little heed for his old maester, who had to pause frequently for breath during the climb. He was already seated behind his desk by the time Alyn passed the open door to the room itself. Quellon gestured Euron and Alyn to sit across from him.

"Do you, Son, believe in the same nonsense your brothers do?" Euron shook his head, and though the question was clearly not intended for him, Alyn did the same. It was always best to tread carefully around the Lord of Pyke, lest one snub a mislaid tentacle. Quellon leant back, seemingly satisfied, seemingly leaving them content to remain in tension as he prepared his next words. Alyn felt sorry for Balon. The boy was old enough to escape true punishment, but he was truly a fool to risk Quellon's wrath. But he did hope Balon would manage to dissuade his father from joining the Targaryens at war, or even sack Seagard, Seven forbid. If only Alyn could aid this brash boy, whom he'd known for some years distantly… He remembered the shining silver streams from the days of his youth, the towers overlooking the golden waters of the Sunset Sea. How he hoped it would all—

"Maester!" Alyn jolted in his seat. Lord Greyjoy ignored it. "Take this letter and send it to King's Landing when I am finished with you." Regaining his composure quick enough to bow his head lightly and say in reply what he had been drilled endlessly for.

"Yes, milord."

"Good." The elder Greyjoy turned to his son. "It seems you are the only one of sense among my sons, Euron. You told me you had an interest in ravens? A strange interest to be sure, but I may well grant you one for your studies, though I will not permit you go anywhere near the Citadel. Leave tome-sweeping to the maester." _So true! _Alyn thought angrily, as Quellon continued. "Keep an eye on your brothers, and your whim shall be granted."

"Father, do you not see the absurdity of this? If I wanted a Raven, I could simply take one from this man here." Euron pointed at Alyn, drawing a shiver from him.

"I cannot permit such a thing. Ravens are expensive this far from the Citadel. There are none to spare, unless you do what I tell you. You may chafe under this mail shirt I give you, but you shall not drown of obeying me. Under the Drowned God you are, sworn from birth to protect me, the closest of your kin, forget that not." Euron, who had been starting intently into his father's eyes as if to read them, blinked and looked out the window to the sound of crows. _What a coincidence_, Alyn thought, but thereafter thought nothing of it.

"—Father." Alyn turned his head just in time to see Quellon nodding.

"All will be well, then," he said. "I understand a Raven may seem small reward for this, but deceit will forever be a low task, even if it is for a noble cause. You command a ship already, and there is scarce else I can give you."

"The gold price is unbefitting for a Ironborn. I gladly accept that you would offer so little of it." Quellon raised his eyebrows.

"And here I thought you might have listened when I spoke to your brothers of our ancestors' folly."

"Dagon's failure was his overconfidence, not his reaving."

"So I was wrong about you. Answer honestly." Quellon sighed. "Do you agree with your brothers?"

"No. Robert Baratheon's cause hangs on a thread. If Mace Tyrell fully commits to the cause of the Prince, the rebellion is doomed. Whether he has already done so, I do not know, but if he has not, we would only spur him to do so by reaving his lands."

"So, have you inherited my wisdom?"

"Would you trust me to judge myself?" Euron smiled. It was a dangerous look, no mistaking it.

Quellon hesitated. "No man over the sea can be trusted for that." He raised a trembling finger. "But… I will ask of you to try."

"I have never heard a living man describe you as wise, but I do believe I understand that which you have taught me."

"What I failed to teach your brothers, aye." Quellon paused. "Or what they were too great fools to learn."

"I accept your gift. You will hear what my brothers say, I will see to it," Euron said. He pushed his chair back and stood up, over his father. Alyn could not twist his head so far to see him, so he contented himself by reading Lord Greyjoy's face.

"I will content myself with that, Son." Quellon smiled thinly. "You may leave. You! Maester Wodryke, you as well." Alyn slowly climbed to his feet and followed Euron to the door. The young man pulled it open and held it for his elder to shuffle through. As it thudded shut and Alyn slowly descended the staircase and followed Euron across the rope bridge, hanging on the rails whenever he could, doing his best to not look at the fall that separated the old planks. _Gods_, he wished someone would have them finally replaced. Fortunately the remaining two would be easier, he thought, passing into the short tunnel through the stacked rock, which linked the rope one with the others.

Euron grabbed his collar and pushed off-balance at the wall, and let him go just as quickly, before he had the time to shout.

"Why'd you do that?"

Euron laughed, grabbed Alyn's forearm and pulled, forcing him to stumble again. Alyn came to a stop, doubled over, seven steps in, and glared up at the Ironborn's mirth-filled face, which itself looked aged from laughter in the darkness of the light.

"I have an offer, greenlander."

Alyn gathered himself enough to stand straight again, enough to remember that he was the taller of the two, after all. "What mean'st by this?" He had gathered spittle to spit at the vagrant's feet but at the last moment swallowed. Euron leant on the jagged side of the tunnel, like a child, but his face, and his eyes especially remained cold and serious and unhinged.

"Do you know what the Braavosi say of Death?"

Alyn's skin crawled. _A tower enshrined in darkness, breaking against the waves, and a man with no face in the center of it all, demanding a black iron key_.

"Not today," he growled weakly.

"Not a bad guess, but I expected better. He comes for all, Alyn. He comes swiftly for my father, for he is old and withered. He is dying, I am afraid. You also will be found, old man, but you may yet appease him, for a time."

"Cryptic words." Alyn scowled, but then he remembered the old iron rule of sorcery. "A life for a life. You want me to kill him? Shame on you!" Inwardly though his thoughts were of home. The shining sea, that Lord Greyjoy would fill with raiders and reavers to release upon the Riverlands, the home of Lady Piper and distant his cousins the Mallisters besides.

"Accursed is the kinslayer, but you are not of his blood like I am. Do you fear for me?" Euron picked a loose stone from the wall and threw it into the sea. "I am beyond saving, old man. My bones will be clean picked one day among all the other dead, but I flinch from it not. If there is a god to punish me, he is one blind fool indeed to have not done so yet. What holds you back from the lesser evil? Does the life of your lord matter less than the smallfolk you befriended so many years ago? What is one pebble worth, against an ocean?"

"I swore an oath."

"You were appointed by the Citadel for an assignment you did not want. Oaths under coercion mean nothing."

"Does duty mean nothing? This task was chosen for me, and I will keep to it. The gods chose you of all souls to be Quellon's son. Turn your back on the path you were made for, and only grief will follow."

"So you would rather let your home and people burn? What a coward you are, old man. No god would appoint you a healer, the craven you are. Only a truly wretched man would lack the spine to close his eyes to the blood, and save a life or two."

"Who are you to say that cold murder will prevent your elder brother from seeing sense and siding with the Crown?"

"I know my brother. You know my brother. You saw what he said."

"Perhaps you are in league with him and he has planned this all."

Euron laughed.

"I would tell Father without hesitation, if he confided in me such a plan. If Balon goes, the Seastone Chair is mine. Father would believe me. We have our ways of making the guilty confess, and they would prove my word. So no, maester. This is between you and me, only."

Alyn considered making a run for it, but discounted the idea immediately. He was too old for this, so he merely said in reply, "Exposing a Greenlander plot to murder your Father would endear you to him just the same."

"That is true." Euron shrugged, and crossed his arms. "But you would confess on the rack, all of it. Even my involvement. But believe you? My father? Your words?" Euron laughed. "But though words are but wind, your words would carry seeds of doubt. Lest one catch his eye, I cannot risk betraying you." That piqued Alyn's interest.

"What stops me then from revealing all of this to your father?" It was dangerous to suggest this, but Euron could ill-afford being discovered to be a murderer, even if he'd merely killed a maester. Euron smiled thinly.

"Nothing would give you pause but the dagger my father holds to the throats of your kin. If he lives, the blade will _draw blood_,old man. Some of it will be yours, I'll warrant. I will make sure of that, if you do not kill him." Alyn took a deep breath and let it out in a drawn huff. He was cornered in this cowardly scheme from the start. All this talking had been merely to assure him of it.

"Follow me," he said finally, and walked into the first stone bridge on the way back to the Great Keep. The wind howled through the windows, loud enough to keep any eavesdroppers from hearing his next words. He looked up and down the passages, and, seeing none else but Euron, continued, "To the Seven Hells with you, godless kinslayer... When I stand before the Father in judgement, I will have much to say of you. If any god is listening, I do this not by choice." He sent a silent prayer to the Father as Quellon's son watched, evidently amused, and then he continued. "I will do 't, Greyjoy."

"Pious theatrics. But that is not enough. Swear to it."

"In the eyes of Gods and Men, you are accursed, Greyjoy. In the eyes of Gods and Men, I swear I will see to Lord Quellon Greyjoy's death, coerced by his son. May the deed save more lives than it takes, for only then will I be satisfied that I did right."

"Well done, greenlander! You have sworn yourself to the murder of an Ironborn. Your father would be proud. Farewell, and see to it that it is done." Then Euron continued down the bridge at a hastening pace. Alyn looked at his retreating back in resignation. Soon Euron was out of sight, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Then he realized that there were two possible reasons for Euron's hurry, apart from haste. Either he wished to not arouse suspicion, or worse, he intended to tell the guards. Alyn swallowed. His gums felt like paper against his tongue. He would need a drink after this.

He walked past the guards at the door to the keep in silence, trembling inside, but none raised a hand against him. His heart thrust against his ribs as he climbed the stairs to his quarters. When he at last entered, he took a long, drawn-out draught of ale from the bottle lying on his bedside stool, and collapsed into bed. He would have preferred wine, but it was too expensive on these barren rocks spend money on it, not when he had to haggle for every basic herb and substance at Lordsport's forlorn, sparse market square.

Poison would be his tool, he thought. _The poisoner is beneath contempt_, was a common saying in the Citadel, but maesters learned its arts and forged lead links regardless. There was no greater evil beneath study than poison, save that of sorcery, yet Alyn wore lead nonetheless. It had rarely showed over his robes since some Ironborn mistook him for a thrall and a slave when he'd first come. So removing that accursed sign of his vile skill, before he used it would not attract suspicion.

The Tears of Lys were his first choice for a poison, for it could not be detected and attacked the bowels and belly slowly like an infection, but it was not on hand and exceedingly expensive. And even if he did possess it, its slow-acting nature could allow Lord Greyjoy, though bedridden and deathly ill, to set in motion his plan to ravage the Riverlands before his son Balon could redirect it to the Reach.

Nightshade was by far better suited to his purposes. The sap from its roots which Alyn happened to possess, would be lethal in a very small dose if concentrated, and undetectable if its mild sweetness was hidden in wine, which Lord Greyjoy drank every evening. The effects would take some hours to begin to take effect, whereupon the unfortunate soul who consumed it would suffer from great dimness, in the body, eyes, and mind. Quellon Greyjoy, if poisoned so, would be in no state to order the raids, hours before the sun rose again. Yes, nightshade would work best. With that, he drifted off to sleep.

When Alyn awoke at dawn to see the sun barely showing over the horizon, a newly-arrived raven sat on the windowsill, a sealed of parchment stuck to its right leg. After removing this message, he took the bird to a cage in the rookery above his quarters, which had been a storeroom before Quellon requested that a maester be assigned to Pyke. Returning to his room and sitting at his table, he noticed that there were _two _wax seals, instead of the usual one. _Curious_. Both were red, one stamped with a griffin—the sigil of House Connington, a noble family loyal to the Targaryens, and the other with a lion—The sigil of House Lannister. What tidings could it carry, good or ill? No doubt this included a request for Lord Greyjoy to attack the Riverlands, he thought, frowning. _What inconsiderate timing_. After a moment of hesitation, Alyn opened it. His heart sank with the first sentence.

_Greetings Lord Paramount Quellon Greyjoy of the Iron Isles_,

_Tidings of ill but at last some of good as well, friend, for Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark died in twain in battle against our noble Prince, who valiantly fought and fell honorably on the cold fields north of Pinkmaiden, where they too were slain. The Rebellion is vanquished, and we have captured countless prisoners highborn and lowborn. Though the King himself is not in my presence to confirm it, I believe he would ask you to land in the unguarded North and Riverlands, and secure a beachhead, ideally without reaving. In particular, I in his name ask that you move to secure Moat Cailin and the harbor of Seagard, which stand poised to become the principal rallying grounds for those few who managed to escape our immediate grasp. In the Riverlands, expect the support of Lord Symond Darry, who marches on Seagard with seven thousand men, and Ser Kevan Lannister, who leads an additional ten thousand to besiege Riverrun and other key castles north of the Red Fork_. _If the Ironborn secure Moat Cailin as proposed, twelve thousand men with the honorable Ser Barristan Selmy, are tasked with assisting you in bringing Lord Benjen Stark to heel. He and Symond Darry each carry more detailed information that will be relevant to further campaigning._

_Gods lay favor on you._

It was signed _Lord Jon Connington of Griffin's Roost,_and grudgingly in different handwriting, _Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, and Shield of Lannisport. _It seemed Tywin Lannister had stuck a claw to the letter before Jon could send it without his name on it. From what little Alyn had heard, a typical move for the former Hand of the King.

The letter itself was disheartening, to say the least. What was he to do? If Lord Quellon received this letter before he died, he would order an immediate invasion of the North and the Riverlands as per Lord Jon Connington's wishes. It was the sort of task the Ironborn would carry out with great zeal, too much of it in fact. Reaving of Seagard, Alyn's home, would occur therefore regardless of Lord Greyjoy's wishes. There was no question of it, Quellon had to die, and fast, before the news of the Rebellion's defeat reached Pyke by other means.

Revealing this letter would spell disaster, even if the Rebellion, south of Moat Cailin and west of the Bloody Gate, was already doomed. The letter would have to be concealed, or given to Euron. Euron could be furious if he was not given the letter, even if Quellon was dead. Alyn rolled the letter back up and thrust it into a hidden pocket in his inner left sleeve, his mind set. If he encountered Euron whilst on his way, he would attempt to give it to him.

His thoughts returning to poison and a lit candle in hand, he went to his small shelf of important substances, which stood in the darkest corner of his room. The toxic liquid he'd chosen, Nightshade root sap, would be among them. He'd procured it from a passing trader some time ago, and sealed it in a small ale bottle. After some rummaging in the dim morning light, with the candle on the ground beside his pooled robe hemming, his fingers graced a familiar glass shape. He took the bottle out, and examined its contents and label. It was a dark, purplish fluid, the label confirming that it was indeed nightshade root sap, though not concentrated properly. He could see that; the candle's flame was faintly visible through the water.

After making sure his door was bolted securely, Alyn set about ridding the sap of excess water. Spoonful after spoonful of it was brought to a boil over the candle's dancing flame, and the thick purple remnants poured into a flask as large as his finger. The sun had climbed past direct view from the window by the time he finally had the flask filled to his satisfaction, and closed it with a cork, upending it on the table so the air pocket rising to the bottom of the glass would contract as it cooled, sealing it shut. It took another several minutes for this to occur, during which time he fed the ravens, who had been raising an uproar in the rookery above him. After wringing his hands in a bucket of water to remove from himself what evil maladies the corns and poison might remain on his person, he tucked the concentrated nightshade away into another of his hidden pockets, a few fingers away from the letter. By the time he shut the door to his quarters and began his walk to the Kitchen Keep to break his fast, the wind's chill, that harbinger of clumsiness, had seeped in his hands all the way to the bone—Which would not bode well if he hoped to seed poison into Lord Greyjoy's evening wine unnoticed. Alyn looked forward to warming himself at the hearth after his meal. If the plan failed, it could very well be his last.


	4. Chapter 3: Storm's End

**Chapter** **3**: _Storm's End_

Davos washed up on the cold beach, coughing salt and water. He scrabbled in the dark for something to hold onto as the waters around him rolled back for another go at the bottom of the cliff face. His fingers found purchase on something sharp that cut them, but he held on for dear life as a wave roiled over him, drenching him yet again and throwing him around that his toes pointed at the cliff. As the waters receded again he threw himself to his feet and began wading in the surf. Soon his fingers and hair were covered with sand, blood running freely down his stinging, scratched arms.

He'd chosen a moonless night to leave, poor fool, and thought the storms be damned. Now his beloved _Swordfish _was smashed against the rocks out somewhere in the bay, and all his hard-earned gold lost. Davos cursed as he blindly forged onward. What a fool!

As he continued he saw a lantern not far away, swinging subtly in the storm, and moving slowly in his direction. No doubt the man holding it was afoot and walking, else it would have swung around violently, or not moved at all. Davos went heedlessly to it like a fly, not caring who it was, only that they rescue him.

"Help me!" He shouted over the storm. His limbs were growing number by the minute, and already he could no longer feel extremities. The lantern-man seemed to have heard it, as the light immediately hastened its pace. As the lantern drew closer Davos heard footsteps. At arm's length someone finally emerged from the darkness, huffing and puffing, holding the light in one hand and a staff in the other. He wore the a black surcoat with Baratheon livery over his chest, and ringmail glinted red on his arms and neck, but his face was hidden in the dark.

"Davos, is it you?" He thrust the lantern at Davos's face.

"Yes I am." The soldier leant into the light to look closer.

"I see." He handed Davos a damp cloak and made to turn around. "Come. Stannis had a feeling the storm would get you, so he sent me down to comb the shore."

"Your name?" Davos stepped closer, draping the cloak over his shoulders.

"Take this." He thrust his staff into Davos's hands, and began to walk back, Davos at his side. "Name's Loren."

"Westerlander?" Davos said. Loren chuckled.

"Father was." A wave smashed against the cliff face somewhere behind them.

"What… is your… home…land?"

"Get that shivering under control. The harbor path is only thirty paces more." Loren placed the lamp up against the cliff. Davos glimpsed some deep-cut runes in the rock before the soldier continued on in the shallows. "I was born a Waters, but my maid-mother took and raised me here. She saved me from that horrid surname. 'Storms' has a better ring to it, don't you think, Davos?"

Davos nodded, thinking of fire. He no longer felt where he was stepping, for better or for worse, and the staff in his hands hung like it was lead. A good warming at a hearth would restore his spirits, but in his heart, he knew that possibility was still far off. Though the stairs from the harbor to the castle itself were shallow, the way was long and arduous. He knew that for sure; he had hauled sacks up that staircase not two days ago.

"This way." Loren made an abrupt turn left, and waded into the wide, dark harbor gouged into the cliff, where the water reached up to his armpits. Davos grumbled to himself a little, but followed. He recalled entering this darkness when he first came here, calling out for the portcullis to be raised, and finally hearing it creak its way into the endless shadows above him.

It was some time before Loren finally helped Davos onto the landing, both of them thoroughly soaked. A guard had tended a fire there amongst heaps of torn wood, and greeted them warmly as they all sat around it, shivering. Before he could think to thank Loren and the other man for saving him, he was sunken deep into sleep.

The sun shone straight up the harbor when Davos awoke, rays thrusting between the great bars of the portcullis, which had been lowered sometime before. He sat up and rubbed his eyes as they adjusted to the light. A salted fish landed on his lap.

"Good morning, smuggler." Loren was nowhere to be seen, but the other guard from earlier, sat on a small stool across from him, chewing a fish of his own. "Loren patrols the shore every morning. Perhaps he will find something from your ship. It must be awful for you, to lose it this way." Davos stilled and put his fish away from his mouth. He'd lost his boat of eleven years, for this cargo haul of fish… His stomach roiled like it used to at sea when he was but a boy from Flea Bottom. Loren spat a spine into the fire. "All you can do is wait with us, for the siege to end." He reached out his hand. "The name's Jommy." Davos shook it, and sat back, resigned.

"If you lose the war, I am done for." Davos bit off a small piece of fish, and coughed. His mouth was dry as driftwood. "Water." Jommy handed him a flask, and he opened it gratefully. The water tasted old, but Davos was too thirsty to mind.

"The customs officials will not find you. Stannis told me you will have to pass off as one of us, if Storm's End must fall. We will do our best to shelter you. We owe you, Davos." Jommy bit off the head of his fish. "And I intend to see that debt paid."

* * *

**Stannis**

Stannis looked out over Shipbreaker Bay from the top of Storm's End. The wind whistled in his ears, throwing the banner of House Baratheon to and fro over his head from where it hung. Ships with sails slightly larger drifted across the water in a loose cordon across the neck of the bay, dotted with glints of polished metal here and there. Davos had made his way past that once, but the storm had smashed his hopes on the rocks below that gave this place its name.

Stannis turned around, trying to ignore the pangs of starvation, when he heard someone climbing the stairs in a hurried pace. Maester Cressen emerged from the staircase in a huff, clutching something rolled up in his hands, his robes ruffled.

"Milord!" The maester managed barely to bow slightly and hold out a small rolled letter in trembling hands. "Read… this." Stannis's breath grew short. The seal was gone, though in the next second Cressen brought out a flat piece of blue wax as Stannis unfurled the paper. "From Riverrun…"

"Have you read this?"

Cressen nodded breathlessly.

"You should."

Stannis sat down on the cold hard floor, his back against the ramparts that sheltered him from the gusts. Every bone on his back ground against the stone, but it was better than possibly losing the letter to a strong, sudden breeze, or going inside the tower where all was dim. He read it. Every word.

"My brother is dead," He finally said. Cressen's aging joints creaked as he sat beside him.

"You are Lord Baratheon now. Storm's End is yours, Stannis."

"Almost all his friends are killed or captured, Riverrun is under siege, and all our lands are ravaged, and what could I do about it here on this rock?" Cressen brought an arm over Stannis's shoulders, like Father used to.

"You gave Lord Tyrell an excuse to remain here. You did your duty, honorably."

"Is it even true, what this letter says?"

"The raven who carried it was painted with a white star on its chest, as agreed upon. There can be no doubt of it."

"Catelyn Stark is a woman with child, with good reason to send a letter to deceive us, that her firstborn may be spared the fate of the Reynes." Cressen took a deep breath and looked up into the clear sky.

"If Riverrun itself is under siege, the war is lost in the south. Even a token force on the Tumblestone's north bank would be enough to break the siege, yet it stands."

"You would have me the first man to willingly surrender Storm's End? Is that what you want me to be?" Stannis's voice fell to a whisper. "What a failure I would be, if I did."

"I hoped Davos would take you north. It would have spared you the humiliation, but the smuggler's decision to leave in yesterday's storm stayed my hand."

"Rightly so." Cressen raised his eyebrows.

"Did he drown?"

"Loren found him washed up on the shore last night and left him with Jommy." Cressen's face darkened.

"Is he become like Patchface?"

"He has kept his wits about him, to my knowledge, but he is worse for wear."

"I would tell you to take him in as a guard, so he may learn a better life, but you are no longer that young."

"I have already decided for it. If Storm's End must fall and he survives, he will be treated more leniently in arms than as a smuggler. The man is notorious."

"Good," Cressen said, nodding. There was a long pause as the wind whistled over their heads between the merlons. Stannis thought of his brother Robert. Always happy to criticize him… Would the surrender of Storm's End at this rotten hour have angered him more or less? Lord Grandison and Cafferen had surrendered at Summerhall after their armies were crushed, but Robert feasted and hunted with them just the same. Even if it was to beguile them to his side, Stannis thought ruefully. Would Robert notice how his very skin was stretched over his skeletal frame from starving, or would he only see a disgraced boy surrendering the keys to Storm's End?

But Robert was dead, and he was alive. He was the Lord of Storm's End, and his men were starving. Stannis climbed to his feet.

"I must speak with Lord Mace Tyrell." Cressen stared at him as he hurried to stand up as well.

"Really?" Stannis took a long look down at the castle below. Perhaps for the last time he would as its lord. He sighed, gathered himself, and looked back at his mentor.

"I have lived here my whole life, and now I would surrender it to the fat feaster down there. How the times have gone." He looked him right in the eye. "My elder brother is dead and Renly is starving. My men are starving…" Cressen nodded.

"Split amongst your hundred men, Davos's salted fish and onions will not outlast the week."

"Then you must surely understand what I must do." Stannis felt something well up in his eye. He blinked it away. Cressen laid a skeletal hand on his shoulder.

"I understand. Your men will understand… Robert would too, if he stood in my place. That is all you must know."


	5. Chapter 4: The Oaths or Honor?

**Chapter 4**: _Oaths or Honor?_

The armory was dark, tall, and dusty, with a great hearth in the center, and a table laden with steel nearby. The castle's smith and armorer was Donal Noye, a man with his left arm in a sling from an axe-wound, and a chip on his shoulder. Jommy and Davos found him muttering over a fire in the middle of the armory, trinkets of metal hand.

"Smuggler!" Davos jumped. "Jommy!" The smith spun around on his stool and extended his good arm. "Are you in need of my services?"

Jommy shook hands and helped him up, saying, "Stannis sent word to you about our friend's need for armor and weapons, did he not?" Noye snorted.

"He did, though whether this man..." he pointed at Davos. "If he is a _friend _or not, remains to be seen." He scowled for a moment. "Very well. Come with me, smuggler." Jommy raised his eyebrows, as Davos began following Noye to the table.

"He is a friend, you know," the guard said. "I know Gawen's death hit you hard, but he did try to mutiny."

"He was not the only friend of mine this man's onions condemned to death. But no matter." Donal Noye waved him off. "Look, Jommy. I don't hold it against him. Even if I wanted to kill him, I'm too weak to manage it now." He pointed to his slung arm and skeletal face. Davos recoiled. _Kill me? _"That may yet change after I get my hands on the food he brought, but that will take time." Jommy crossed his arms, frowning. Noye raised his eyebrows and followed suit. "Still not convinced? I swear on my honor that I will not try to harm this smuggler. Is that enough reassurance for you?"

"Not for me," Davos retorted. "Are you going to leave me here with a man who hates me?"

"Give him a weapon... and put away that hammer," Jommy said. Noye looked right back, undaunted, but relented. He handed Davos a hammer from his belt, and raised his empty free hand.

"Happy now?"

Jommy scowled, then at last nodded, seeming anything but happy. Davos tested the hammer in his hand. It was somewhat heavy buy wieldy, a sign of a decent weapon. Not as good as the sword he'd lost with his ship, but surely it would be enough against an unarmed, starved man? He had fought pirates before in tavern brawls, after all.

"So, Davos, come with me." Noye walked to the table, and picked up a padded coif. Davos didn't follow. "Oh, come on. You know I am an honorable man, Jommy. Tell him."

"He keeps his word," Jommy said. Davos was unconvinced.

"Are you sure of it?"

"Come, and put this on." The smith held out a gambeson. It had a pink stain near the shoulder that looked suspiciously like blood."

"It was no fun sewing it up," Jommy said. Noye grunted.

"It should fit you well enough, smuggler. Put it on. I can't help you much because of my arm." He handed it over. Davos slipped it over his worn clothes, and laced it closed.

"Fits well enough," he said. "What about the rest?"

Noye helped him with that, though his bad arm required Jommy to help often, frustrating as it was for the smith. All but the helm and the belt were a bit tight, but they were serviceable. The two men stood back at last when they were done, and Donal remarked, "You'll pass for one of us, alright... Everything but your face." He rubbed his chin and sat on a stool, as Davos shifted in his new armor, raising his eyebrows. Did that mean that this plan to pass him off as one of their own would not work? Noye continued. "There's not much to be done 'bout that. Well, keep that helm on whenever you can." He pulled a flask from his belt and took a swig. "And keep that padded coif over your head at all times." Jommy nodded.

"Until the garrison adds a bit of flesh to their faces, he will not blend in," he grimly added.

Noye replied with a whisper. "No, he will not."

"What do you mean?" Davos stepped forward until he was standing over the smith. "What do you mean!" Donal Noye pivoted on his stool and looked him right in the eye.

"I thought I made that clear. You've the fat of a man who's not been starving on rations in the last ten months." Davos's heart stopped for a moment, and he pinched the flesh below his right eye before he knew what he was doing. His voice fell to a strained whisper, as he realized in full the danger, cursing his foolishness. If only he'd realized the risk before he set off on this rotten expedition.

"You promised me protection! If Stannis lets on that someone brought in provisions, who do you think will they suspect? The only man in the castle who doesn't look starved, maybe? I will be ruined!" He grabbed Donal Noye by the shoulders, and shook him. "The customs officials curse me here and across the sea. What do you think will happen when they figure out who I am?"

Jommy pulled him off Donal Noye, as the latter made a point of rubbing his stubble-studded chin. "You would be lucky to escape with a mere lack of hands."

"Get off me." Davos shook the guard off, and ground his teeth, tasting blood. "You must help me escape."

"Ha! And how do you suggest I go about it? With only one working arm?"

"You... you people," Davos replied, trying to speak calmly but failing with every word. "All of you in the garrison—owe me your lives!" Donal Noye stood up, kicking his stool behind him with a violent thud, where it landed beside the fire.

"I owe you!" He paced around the table back to Davos until he towered over him an arm away. It was at this moment that Davos noticed how much shorter he was. "I owe you?" Noye stepped forward and thrust his working arm at Davos's shoulder, on the hardened plate. Davos flinched. Jommy stepped between them.

"There is no need for an argument. He brought us provisions and saved our lives."

"I believe it," Noye said. "Lord Stannis, Seven bless his name, was on the verge of asking Lord Tyrell for terms—honorable terms, because—until this smuggler arrived." He lowered his voice, and looked Davos right in the eye. "You, with your hold full of onions and fish convinced him! To delay talking with the flower-eating hog down there, whom he already was resolved to avoid as long as possible. How long will this shipment of his last, Jommy? A week, at best." He stepped forward and sidled the guardsman aside. Davos stepped back. "Seaworth, there is little of worth that your ship brought us. My friends died of their wounds after you arrived with that shipment of yours." Noye's eyes glistened. "They're dead men on your account, smuggler. The rocks should have smashed your ship on the rocks a day earlier, and they would perhaps have lived." He spat at Davos's feet. Davos recoiled. "Now their corpses await salting in the dungeons, so their flesh may serve when all else fails..." The smith swung his bandaged arm as much as its sling permitted. "And Maester Cressen has told me that his stocks have been depleted, not that it has prevented him from keeping his ravens fed, somehow. My axed arm, like the now-dead will lack proper treatment until Stannis relents."

"He considered a parley, didn't he?" Jommy said.

"By the maester's reckoning, it may well be too late by then to prevent something permanent. And I am not the only one here with something festering. We all starve, and if we're wounded, we heal about as well as dead men. Don't you deny it, Jommy. Until Stannis realizes that fish and onions will not change our predicament..." Donal Noye took a deep breath and let it out. "This shall continue. I am no friend of yours, Davos Seaworth."

Davos stepped backwards with his hand at the sword hanging from his waist, looking intermittently at the smith and then Jommy. What was this man's game? Surely he was not _that _ungrateful? And after all, it was not his fault the men in the cells died. If Stannis let them starve to death, what difference would it have made if the others remained on the verge of death as well?

Donal Noye laid his hand on his belt, where his hammer had hung, and his fingers grasped air. He blinked. He swung his good arm out, in a clear invitation to shake it. Davos kept his distance. Jommy finally broke the silence.

"I think he means to say that he will not attempt to harm you, in spite of what he has just said." Years of seeing quarrels being quelled told Davos that the guard merely offered the smith an out, a way to put a lid over his harsh words. The man finally accepted, gazing at the floor.

"Milord asked that I help you, smuggler. Robert has been killed, so his brother, Stannis... _His word is law_. The best I can do you within my ability is to give you the arms you wear now, and pray to the Seven that you do not lose your head."

"And hands," Jommy added, as Davos finally shook hands with Donal Noye.

"No need to remind me of it," Davos muttered. "But I do not understand why you would blame me, when all I did was bring salted fish and onions."

Donal Noye grunted. "I would prefer having a working arm over a fish." He wiped something from his eye. "I thought I explained myself."

"I still do not understand," Davos said.

"Nor I," Jommy added.

Donal Noye gathered himself. "It scarcely matters. If you think you have a better idea than pretending to be one of us, go to Lord Stannis and give him a word about it. I have helped you enough."

* * *

Davos found Stannis later that morning surveying the Reacher camps. _Thinking of all the food_, he thought, but could not help himself from himself being amazed at the rainbow of tents laid out some hundred paces from the foot of the walls where he now stood.

"Lord Stannis," Davos said. Stannis turned his head slowly, and nodded. His skeletal face betrayed nothing. "You do real—" He stopped himself, cursing in his head as Stannis raised his eyebrows. Nobles were notorious for their pride, and from what little of Stannis he'd seen, it was not reassuring. Davos began again. "I am too well-rounded to pass for one of your men," he said. _Argh_. He'd said the wrong thing again. But Stannis responded.

"I know what you mean, and there is little I can do about it." The young lord pointed at the host arrayed below, looking around to ensure there was none listening. "If I must surrender, I will attempt to negotiate for my men, you included, to be set free. But there is little else that comes to mind." Davos's heart sank, but then Stannis raised a finger, blinking profusely. "Unless..." Davos knew better than to ask a lord, so he kept silent as Stannis looked away, no doubt thinking. At last Stannis took one look at him, sizing him up, and said, "Merchants have much in common with a smuggler. Throw one on a beach and rob him blind, and there's scarce a difference." Stannis's eyes lit up eerily in their bony sockets, as Davos took a step back, wondering what stray thought had seized on him. "You could pass for one, with a change of clothes and a light beating in the dungeons," Stannis said.

"You want to pretend that I am a tradesman you captured, after his ship was smashed on the rocks in a storm," Davos said. Stannis nodded.

"Precisely. The story would explain why the garrison's food stocks have been replenished, and perhaps could garner you some sympathy from Lord Tyrell."

Davos breathed slowly, cogs turning in his head. He replied, "You intend to surrender?" Stannis put his hand over Davos's mouth, looking around nervously. He slowly lifted it, upon seeing that there were none in earshot. "Do not repeat that. I am considering a parley with that fat Lord Paramount, but the garrison cannot know that until I have made my decision, or they may revolt. Spill a word, and there will be no help for you." Stannis leaned against the battlement, with an unmistakable creak in his bones as he crossed his arms. "I do regret that I did not think of this... plan, before I ordered Donal Noye to outfit you in castle steel. It was a waste of time, and he has been throwing me nasty looks since his friends starved to death in the cells."

Davos nodded. "You are right. He did not take kindly to me, but he did suggest that I go to you for assistance in my predicament." Stannis frowned, and began walking down the wall toward the keep.

"I will have to keep an eye on him, then," he said, "Until I negotiate a surrender." He paused, and looked over his shoulder. "Do you believe he would sell you out to Lord Tyrell given the chance?" Davos thought hard. Donal Noye was certainly no friend of his, but what had he actually done but help him? _Milord's word is law_, he had said, and followed those words, albeit grudgingly. He swallowed. He was not an evil man, that Davos could sense, but he had dealt with ordinary men, and they had proven time and time again that they cared for almost nothing but their own wealth. The man who exposed the infamous Davos Seaworth was in line for a handsome reward, former rebel soldier or not. But he had behaved honorably, had he not? Stannis did not give him the time to finish his thoughts. He said, "Do you?"

"No," Davos blurted out, doubting it immediately. Then he added, "But I do not trust him." Stannis raised his eyebrows, but resumed walking.

"What would you think if I ordered him into the dungeon with you?"

"What?" Davos said. Stannis opened the door to the keep and led him to stairs spiraling further up. He stopped there, and said, "I could have him say the same of you, that you were a humble merchant caught in the storm." His eyes narrowed and he frowned a little in some twisted semblance of a smiling grimace. "And that noble Donal Noye was caught using his metalworking skill in an attempt to free you so you could inform on the sorry state of my garrison."

Davos thought a little, as Stannis worked his way up, him in tow. Finally, he said, "It is a good story."

"Lord Tyrell may yet listen, for there is indeed a grain of truth to the tale."

"But would Noye consent to it?"

"He has served House Baratheon for six-and-twenty years. He made Robert's hammer and my first sword. He will vouch for your story if I tell him to."

"Then why would you make him feign loyalty to the King, if you could just order him to keep quiet about me?"

"There was an attempt at treachery not a week before you arrived, some friends of his. If I say it was an attempt to free an innocent merchant, and show the bodies, Lord Tyrell, if luck is on your side, will believe it," Stannis said. The stairs ended at a well-polished door of black wood, hanging on silver hinges. _His rooms_, Davos thought, resolving to keep an eye out for something he could perhaps steal. The door opened with a creak, and before Stannis led him through, he looked Davos in the eye and said, "Some garments befitting a merchant will probably be in my garderobe here. But do not touch a thing unless I give it to you first." Davos nodded nervously, thinking of what he had just thought, and walked inside.

The room was round, and plainer than he'd expected, but there were a fair share of trinkets he could see. Murals of stags covered the walls and arches supporting the ceiling and windows. A candlelit table stood in the center, silver's telltale glint sparkling from various objects laid out on it. A Maester sat beside it, holding a parchment to the light.

"Cressen! The smuggler needs garments that would make him seem a merchant," Stannis said." The maester hurriedly tucked the parchment into one of his pockets and strode over.

"So this is the man who frustrated our customs officials so much?" Cressen said. Stannis nodded quickly, grabbing Davos by the arm and thrusting him at the maester, who took his hand and shook it. "My Lord, shall I find him something?"

Stannis nodded.

"He will need something of moderately respectable status." He kicked the door shut, and continued, "I have decided that his best chance of escaping notice as a smuggler, is dressing him up as a merchant. Lord Tyrell will only know that this man is a humble merchant, who recklessly sailed his ship through last storm to bring the Reachmen provisions, was shipwrecked, and captured by my men."

"That is a lot to take in." Cressen scratched his chin. "But a good tale to tell. Come, Davos. There will be something suiting you here somewhere, I will warrant. Not _everything _the Baratheons ever wore cost an arm and a leg." The maester led Davos to a smaller door, which he opened, bowing his neck as he went through the archway. Davos looked over his shoulder, and saw Stannis at the table, hunched over something. The lord noticed, and waved him off. Davos followed Cressen into a bedchamber-sized room. Sunlight filtered through a stained glass window over an oddly lone row of chests, where the maester kneeling labored at one's latches. Something about the size of the room told Davos perhaps that this had not always been a garderobe. With a grunt Cressen managed to open one, and dug out a plain black velvet tunic.

"Isn't that a bit sumptuous for a lowly merchant?" Davos said, eyeing it.

"True." Cressen laid it back in the chest and resumed his search. "But a richer merchant might wear such a thing." Something red caught Davos's eye among the piled clothes, and he pointed it out.

"That tunic could fit on you," Cressen said, holding it against Davos. "It does look to be about your size, and the fabric is cheap, practical."

"Something a merchant would wear?" Davos said. Cressen nodded, and handed it to him.

"Try it on. If the tunic fits, you should need little else but what you wore when you arrived," the maester said. Davos laid aside his helm and put it over his head and shoulders. "If you remove the armor beneath it, it should fit convincingly," Cressen said. Davos nodded. It was particularly tight around his sleeves. "What do you think would suit you, in regards to shoes?"

Eventually Davos Seaworth found himself shivering in in a dank, dark cell a meter wide and two deep, his skin and clothes damp and crusted with salt. The familiar smell of the sea whistled through a barred window some ways over his head, accompanied by a white shaft of light that pierced through the dusty air until it reached the hardwood door, as if to taunt him. After finishing off Davos's disguise with a good pair of shoes, linen trousers much like his old ones, and some additional articles of clothing to make it more convincing, Cressen handed him off to the guards Jommy and Loren, who gave him a dip in the harbor, and, amidst Davos's protests, ripped at his clothes with jagged clothes until they resembled what he'd worn when he returned from the shipwreck of the _Swordfish._Then none too gently, they had dried him up at a fire and brought him to a cell, where Stannis bid him farewell saying, "If all goes well, you will be out of here by tomorrow."

"Make yourself comfortable. You will have company," the disheveled gaoler added when Stannis was gone, and shut the door. _Who, _he briefly wondered, before he remembered that Donal Noye was coming as well. He did not like the prospect of sharing a cell with him.

Davos felt around in the dim in search of a place to sit, as his eyes adjusted. Eventually he found a pile of old, rotting straw. _Better than nothing_. He kicked it for rats out of habit, and settled himself there. In his younger days aship, such heaps were his bedding.

His thoughts drifted to his wife, Marya, and his four sons, whom he had left in Gulltown before setting out for Storm's End. Dale, their eldest, would grow into a deft smuggler under his parents' guidance. Of the boys, Allard needed guidance the most, the boldest of them all Davos had fondly called him, though now he wondered if he himself was not more reckless, sailing to a castle under siege and trying to leave amidst a storm in _Shipbreaker Bay_. Davos hit himself. If he returned to his family alive, he would give Allard a strict lesson, lest the boy get himself hanged. Or sent to the Wall. Davos smiled wryly in the dark. Allard would make a fine Wildling, if it came to that. One of them had told him as much.

His third and fourth sons, Mathos and Maric, well, they were too young to know for sure, but Mathos had ambition. He would climb high if he could, much to Marya's concern. Maric was merely an infant, though. Davos hoped he would live to see his three boys grow into men like Dale had. He hoped he would be able to return to his family with some something to show for this rotten venture. He hoped, that Mace Tyrell would not question the story Stannis would tell him. This plan _had_to work, at least long enough to allow Davos the time to escape the grasp of the customs officials.

_You would be lucky to escape with a mere lack of hands_. Davos shivered. If Donal Noye betrayed him... He clenched his grimy fists. The smith was no friend of his, obedient servant or no. Davos almost wiped his hands on his new tunic, before, cursing, he realized it was not something a merchant of good stature would do. Stannis had said as much. But was he right about Noye? The man made no secret of hating him when they'd last met, though he was forthright enough to point him in the right direction. Grudgingly.

At this time, there was little use trying to change the plan. If that man would betray him, he would betray him. Davos could only pray that he would not, and that the plan would succeed. He was never much of a worshipper, but who else could hear him but the Seven? They gave him a good wife and four healthy sons, even amidst his smuggling, and never asked a thing of him. Would their favor run sour, as water on a ship? Davos rolled his eyes at himself and closed his eyes. He was not a man for this sort of thinking.

* * *

Davos managed to nod off before Donal Noye stumbled through the door.

"Look what the smuggler has found himself in the castle wardrobe," the smith said. Both men winced at the sound of the door slamming shut, which echoed through the dungeon.

"Aye, it's me," Davos replied when the noise died down, holding out his hand as Noye settled against the hard wall across the room. "Humble merchantman, at your service."

"Hungry smuggler, you mean." Noye blindly batted Davos's hand away. "I knew Lord Stannis would have a plan, but I had no idea it would require me to sully my honor and kiss Lord Tyrell's feet. My arm is relieved that his Lordship plans to negotiate today, but that does not mean I have any love lost on that rose-eating hog. May he prick himself."

Davos sidled up against the wall, and leant forward to ask the most important question.

"Will you follow the plan?" Asking this directly went against all Davos had picked up in his smuggling years, but he could not resist.

"Storm's End be doomed," Noye grumbled. "But His Lordship's word is law. Before the eyes of gods and men, I swore fealty to his family seven and twenty years ago, when I had a mere twelve to my name." His face darkened. "I have no choice. Stannis were to sail to the great darkness of Asshai, I would follow him. Because I must... Now he has ordered me to pretend disloyalty, _disloyalty_..." He looked Davos straight in the eye. "I will cope, as I always have, and obey. Even if it breaks me."

Davos stared. Was the smith this unhinged already? Finally, he said, "Did they give you milk of the poppy, or some other drug to cope with the pains in your arm?"

Noye laughed bitterly.

"You do not understand the extent of our loyalty, smuggler. Perhaps that's just how you people are, thieving for a living." Davos resisted the urge to retort. "For our lord, we would go to the end, or the bottom, for that matter, of the furthest oceans." He laughed again. "But perhaps there is some truth to what you say. Perhaps men needs be drunk, to swear their lives to another. There are many things that make them drunk. Honor, rashness, friendship, mayhaps even love." Noye nodded to himself. "I am a man drunk on honor, if you will... or duty. But you would not understand."

"I have a wife and children to provide for," Davos said.

"You bring them what they need because you have to, not because you want to."

"I understand duty well enough," Davos insisted. What did this bowing and scraping smith have on him that he could judge him? Noye raised his eyebrows.

"You understand duty enough to teach them to become something more than yourself?"

"Better smugglers than myself, I should hope. Unless you can suggest a better profession?"

"Ha!" Noye chuckled. "There are few occupations more deceit-ridden than smuggling. I daresay there are more than a few things you can do that would not condemn your soul when the Stranger comes knocking."

"Like sailing through a treacherous bay of rocks to feed a starving garrison?"

The smith winced.

"I have made—"

"I came to your aid, and you spit at my feet. Is that honorable, or petty and ungrateful?"

"I've made amends by agreeing to this, smuggler. That is all you need ask of me. Whatever your intentions, you brought Storm's End a week's provisions. Honor, wrought of both my oaths and my obligations to repay past favors, demands that I help you. Your head is on the line, and if I am to regain what honor I have lost in agreeing to this dishonest scheme, I must see it through Mace Tyrell's camp, preferably on your shoulders."

"So is it settled that you will not betray me?"

Donal Noye scratched his head and said, "I thought that was obvious."

"I wanted to be sure. My life is on the line, after all." Davos held out his hand again. "It is settled then. You will hold to the plan?" This time, Noye took it.

"By my honor, though you don't know how much it means to me," he said, and the two men shook hands. "But that does not mean I want to."

* * *

The gaol came for them later with a turned key and candlelit smile. Davos just barely saw rays of sunlight glint on the stone above, before he ducked his head and bowed through the doorway behind Noye and the gaol. Some iron doors later, they reached the main stair leading from the harbor to the keep. Davos followed up the many stairs to the ground level in silence and in a dimness punctuated only occasionally by a window cut deep into the rock, or the clinking of keys that grated on his nerves with every step. They passed a guard or two. He thought one of them was perhaps Jommy or Loren, but he passed quickly, in evident haste.

Eventually the gaol reached the door he wanted, and led them into a sunlit corridor, then into a small room that he eventually recognized as a sept. The gaol let them wait there, for a good minute. Davos looked around the room. A stained-glass window to the east let the sun's rays in, and cast a rainbow on Donal Noye's bald head. It was an interesting sight, to which Davos almost chuckled. Statues of the Seven stood below the window, on a dais before rows of benches that had seemingly been broken. For firewood, no doubt.

"You look the part, but rolling in your cell would have made it more convincing," Davos heard Stannis say. Robert Baratheon's brother marched into the sept, and Davos nodded, blinking out a sudden burst of sunlight in his eyes, until he could see clearly. He shivered at a sudden chill in the air, but managed a reply that he hoped would not make a fool of him.

"You should have told me to, then. But we all have our pride."

Stannis nodded.

"Bind him."_What?_Sharp nails dug into his wrist and pulled his hands behind his back as he struggled against the guard that had quietly followed Stannis in. Rope followed the hands, and cut into their wrists even more. Davos tried to free himself but the starved man's grip was as hard as iron, and soon his wrists were bound tightly. The guard forced him to his knees on the cold stone floor, and then released him. Donal Noye rolled his eyes down at him, still unbound. "You will have to keep up this performance for the better part of the day, I'm afraid," Stannis continued, standing over Davos. "If all goes well."

"And if not, my head gets cut off."

"It will not come to that." Stannis turned to his smith. "Donal Noye, I promise you will be compensated for this deprivation. You have ever been a loyal man of House Baratheon, and that shall not be forgotten amongst these fifty men, much less myself." Stannis stood over his smith and drew his sword. "Kneel, Donal Noye." The smith, looking confused, complied. "And are you not my family's leal servant of seven-and-twenty years?"

"I am."

Stannis laid his sword on Noye's right shoulder. He continued, moving his sword to the opposite shoulder with every sentence, "In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maid I charge you to protect all women…" Stannis laid his sword on Donal Noye's left shoulder, eliciting a wince from the arm slung below, and ground out the remaining words past his teeth. "I, Ser Stannis, Lord of Storm's End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, do dub you a knight, for your unwavering service, and that the weight of the dishonor that I have asked of you may be lightened from your shoulders." Davos stared. Was he seeing true? If his hands weren't bound, he would have rubbed his eyes. Stannis raised his sword from Ser Donal's shoulder, and ran his eyes over the blade. "You made this sword, did you not?" The smith raised his eyebrows almost as high as Davos's, and remained silent for a time.

"I did make that sword, milord," he finally replied.

"It is yours now, Ser Donal Noye. May you use it well." The knight reluctantly accepted the sword with his good hand and looked at it with reverence. Even with his untrained eye, Davos could see the fine craftsmanship in the hilt and crossguard. "You can stand now." Donal Noye flinched and slowly climbed to his feet with help from Stannis's guard.

"Thank you, milord," he said, "But I don't know if this is right. Making me a knight, and giving me this sword, I mean. I made this weapon for your hands, and your hands alone, as I made Robert's hammer for his. How am I worthy of this weapon, let alone a knighthood?"

"I will try and have the sword brought to you after I parley with Lord Tyrell and release you two to his custody," Stannis said, extending his hand. "As for you being a knight, I believe you required another few oaths to be completely sure of going with the plan." Noye gingerly handed the sword over, and looked at the other guard, who drew his own and traded the weapons with his liege. Both men sheathed the blades, and concealed them under their cloaks. The guard heaved Davos to his feet by the collar. "We mustn't wait here too long. I have called up my men to be ready for the parley."

"Yes, milord," the guard said, "But should you not give Donal Noye time to pray?" Stannis hesitated, then nodded. Davos turned to him. Stannis continued.

"I will leave Davos to your care as well. Bring our… _prisoners_… to the gate shortly, though. I will be waiting there." Stannis leant in close to the guard, right up to his faceplate, which concealed the man's face. "A word of this… you hang," Davos heard him whisper. The guard nodded. Stannis opened the door and looked back for a second. "I will meet you at the gate," he said, and the door slammed shut behind him.


	6. Chapter 5: The Parting

**Chapter 4**: _The Parting_

The clouds cast a grey shadow on gallows hill, which stood bare and alone between the battlements of Storm's End and the field of tents arrayed beneath its gaze. The ruins of a scaffold there remained, and a siege engine might have taken its place, were the Lord of Highgarden less attached to the table. Perhaps he believed it was a bad omen, to place such a construction on such a death-stricken place. But no blood was ever spilt there, if the stories held true, and that was where they were supposed to parley. The soldiers of Storm's End prodded Davos Seaworth and Donal Noye down the slopes of sprouting green grass, as Stannis walked at the fore with the banner of his house held aloft at his side. A man bearing a great silver trumpet rushed past the prisoners to join him, dressed in fine heraldry. Davos and Noye kept a good pace to avoid getting prodded. Sometimes they stumbled, and the guards had to haul them up. They knew of the plan, Stannis had said, and to stick to it they would need to act accordingly. That meant harsh treatment, and though this was all to save his life, Davos could not help but curse the men for how they went about it. Weapons were piled at the foot of gallows hill, as guards cast aside their weapons, and proceeded to climb the hill. It was itself no small task to climb with hands tied behind their backs, and yet again he found himself pulled along mercilessly. When they finally reached the peak, a pike affixed with a banner was thrust into the ground, and Stannis stood with more guards, waiting.

"See how long it takes, eh?" Donal Noye said. Davos had only the energy to nod. The guards had finally let the prisoners sit on the ground in peace, and they took full advantage of it. As they watched, Stannis gestured to the trumpeter, saying words that the cutting wind refused to tell. He nodded, and flew four long blasts, which echoed in the chilly air.

"That will be it," Davos said. It was terribly uncomfortable to wait with his hands tied so. Donal Noye nodded back. No doubt he was more comfortable, with his good arm tied to his wounded arm above the elbow.

"Lord Tyrell will take his time," the knight replied. "He was slow at Ashford, he was slow here, and he will be slow now. Settle down. It will be a while." Davos sighed, resigned. How long would he have to sit like this? Some hours, it turned out. The sun peeked past the grey clouds above at the time of noon, when at last what sounded like a hundred trumpets blew once, twice, thrice, no, four times in the cold. Looking past the guards' legs, Davos saw Stannis wave his hand, and at last march back to him.

"Men, you all know what this is about," Stannis said. "Keep to the plan, keep no weapons, start no fights." The guards nodded, and said their share. Stannis looked down at Davos and the man he'd knighted. "Same goes for you," he said, and he was gone again.

"Keep no weapons, start no fights," Donal Noye muttered, looking at his bound arms. "Easy enough for us." Davos could not help but agree. Hopefully the parley would finally start, so he could get out of these ropes as soon as possible. He hoped not in vain, for it was not long after that a portly man in green and red and gold finery crested the hill. Stannis's guards stepped aside, so at last Davos could get a better look. Many more men followed that portly man, clad in only slightly humbler dress. None bore weapons that could be seen. The man who could only be Lord Tyrell stopped just short of Stannis, and held out his arm.

"Lord Stannis!" He spoke in a booming voice, one that carried well through the wind. Stannis grabbed his hand and shook it. "You come here for terms?" Stannis shook his head.

"You come here for terms."

"I believe it." Lord Tyrell looked around at the guards and their haggard, starved faces. "I see there is a disparity between our provisions." Some muttered angrily, until their comrades hushed them. The Reachmen beamed at their leader. "I should have my servants bring something to eat. What say you to that, friend?" Stannis visibly ground his teeth but nodded. A Reachman in lesser finery stepped forward and exchanged words with his liege, before retreating behind his fellows, no doubt to tell the servants.

"Shall we wait until they return?" Stannis said. Mace Tyrell took a long look at him, clearly sizing him up.

"I would not begrudge it," he said at last. The two lords stood in the howling wind in silence_. Like statues_, Davos thought. At last servants came, bearing a red-painted table with evident difficulty, judging by the flurry of groans and curses that accompanied their coming. They brought it between the two lords. Mace Tyrell moved aside to give them room, but Stannis stood his ground and forced them to lay it down so that the table was tilted ever so slightly downwards from his side. Soon, chairs followed, and the abundant nobles of the Reach occupied them like flies. There was not room for all of them, so after a renewed scuffle, most were forced to stand and look over the shoulders of their more fortunate peers. Stannis seated himself across from Lord Tyrell, and gestured men forward to sit at his side.

"Bring them forward as well," he said. "Both of them." Guards hauled Davos to his joint-creaking feet, and then threw him with Donal Noye into seats at the far-left end of the table. Davos leant against the back of the stool, but then he realized that his life was on the line here, and that some of the nobles were staring at them and their rope binds. Donal Noye was ahead of him already, and nodded at them with a slight smile. Hopefully that would convince them. Stannis continued talking.

"We have been rationing our provisions through the year." Mace Tyrell leaned forward.

"And you are running out?" he asked.

"To the contrary. Our food stocks remain substantial."

"A look at your faces is enough to tell me the truth of it," scoffed Lord Tyrell. Stannis stood up from his seat and with some effort lifted a sack onto the table. Onions, dozens of green onions smelling of the sea, thumped onto the table. One rolled all the way to Donal Noye, who grabbed it awkwardly within his bonds. Mace Tyrell stared. Stannis Baratheon leant over his right and retrieved yet another bag, and upended it. Dozens of stiff, salted fish clacked on the wood amongst the onions.

"Wh—who brought them to you?" Lord Tyrell spluttered.

"There was a storm three days ago," Stannis said, sitting back down." Do you recall?"

"Well enough," Lord Tyrell replied, looking resigned. "My goodbrother told me how bad it was... His mariners had a jolly good time with it. They almost lost a ship."

"One merchantman fared worse. His ship was smashed on the rocks, laden with provisions for your army."

"So he drowned and you despoiled the wreck," sighed Lord Tyrell. "To be expected, but unfortunate nonetheless."

"Not at all," Stannis countered. "My men sometimes patrol the foot of the cliffs in the bay. That aside, one of my men, a certain Loren Storms, found your merchant washed up on the beach that night, and what remained of his ship as well." Mace Tyrell looked at Davos, then Donal Noye, and at looked at Stannis through his eyebrows.

"I see two prisoners, not one," he said. "Did he have a sailor with him?" Stannis shook his head.

"Four of my men conspired to set him free. We caught them and clapped them in chains as well, but there was a fight. All of them were wounded in the fight. Only one survived all the way until now, and his arm is in a sling." Lord Tyrell nodded slowly, narrowing his eyes.

"I see."

"Then you will understand why I will not surrender my men to you outright." Stannis leaned forward. "There will have to be a bargain." Lord Tyrell scratched his head.

"Name your proposals," he said after a pause. "I will not sell my effort short, but name them."

"I would be prepared to abandon Storm's End with my men on the condition that you grant us safe passage to the nearest port, that we may depart aship to the Vale with our prisoners." Mace Tyrell raised his eyebrows.

"That is no proposal to make in such—"

"Or, I could give you Storm's End and order my men lay down their arms, on the condition that they are paroled and guaranteed safe passage to their homes and families."

"Not if they would go to the North of the Vale. That aside, what of you, you and your brother? What would be done with you? And I what of the prisoners? I would be remiss in my duties if I did not ask that they be released to my hospitality."

"The prisoners will be returned to you," Stannis said. Davos breathed deeply. Would this lord perhaps be willing to give him compensation for the loss of his ship? It was almost too much to hope. Stannis continued. "And of my brother and I..." He gathered himself, visibly grinding his teeth. "We would be prepared to give ourselves over to your custody. Not the Crown's, mind you, Lord Tyrell. yours, and yours only. And only if you guarantee us protection from the wrath of the Crown. That is to say, you will not allow anyone to execute, torture, or otherwise harm us." _And now for the moment of truth_, Davos thought. "Those are acceptable terms, are they not?"

Lord Tyrell looked at the lords seated beside him. Most nodded, but some, like the red-haired man sitting across from Davos, shook their heads furiously at their liege.

"I believe they are..." their liege said, after he had taken a good look at the reactions of those around him. "Before the eyes of gods and men, I accept your terms. I, Mace Tyrell, Lord Paramount of the Reach and Highgarden, grant your men parole and passage to their homes, and will protect Stannis and Renly Baratheon as my prisoners, from any sort of harm myself or the King may wish upon them. They may return to Storm's End once to retrieve what they wish." As some lords broke into shouting, Davos exhaled slowly. It was done. Donal Noye leant back in his seat, gazing blankly to the sky, as if trying to glimpse his future. Stannis exchanged grim looks with his guards, but there was a tinge of relief somewhere in his face. Mace Tyrell stood up, as servants came forward through the press of Reacher nobles, bearing bowls of bread and salt. Lord Tyrell walked around the table until he stood over Davos and Donal Noye. Davos knew he was supposed to say something, but he had no idea exactly what.

"Milord?" Donal Noye ventured. He stood up with difficulty, and knelt. Davos hastily followed suit. Lord Tyrell raised his eyebrows.

"Cut their bonds," he told a guard still seated nearby, who had begun sampling from the bread and salt laid out before him. The guard, caught mid-bite, could not answer, but nodded and left his chair. Davos felt the rope around his wrists loosen, then fall. He remained on his knees on the cold ground, wondering if this was the time when he was supposed to rise. Donal Noye's hands were then also untied.

"What are your names?"

"I am Devan Waters," Davos replied. "And this man is Donal Noye, a smith of Storm's End."

"I see," Lord Tyrell said. "We would do well to get that arm fixed." He lowered his hand, laden with gem-encrusted rings, until it was at a level with the knight's face. Donal Noye steeled himself, then applied his lips to an emerald. Lord Tyrell moved on to Davos, who managed a blind peck at a ruby, softening the humiliation coursing through his veins, by imagining that it was his wife's lips instead. "You may rise." Davos took the offer eagerly, wiping grass from his knees, as Donal Noye rose to his feet as well.

"Thank you, milord," they both said. Davos smiled thinly, though Donal Noye could not muster the effort. Mace Tyrell beamed.

"You must be tired and hungry, friends," he said. "Stannis Baratheon and his men will return to Storm's End a final time to tell the place a final goodbye. You do not intend to follow them back, am I right? I imagine you are embittered from your stay in Stannis's home."

"Aye, we are, milord," Davos said, and Donal Noye managed a nod this time. "Thank you for your generosity. We were worried for a moment there that you would allow Stannis to keep us prisoner."

"Oh, I never considered it for a moment. Who am I to abandon an honest, hardworking merchant like yourself? I will see to it that you are compensated for your trouble. Storms, terrible things they are. Good old Steffon and his wife died young in Shipbreaker Bay. You were mighty fortunate the Seven saw fit to save you from such a fate." Davos saw out of the corner of his eye Donal Noye briefly frowning at the last sentence, but Mace Tyrell evidently did not notice. The portly lord looked back at the longtable, and gestured at the strange feast unfolding. The table was already laden with sumptuous platters, which lowborn guards in their armor battled over in a flurry of knives with highborn nobles dressed in finery. "Quite the sight to see," he muttered. "You." He gestured at his guards, and the former prisoners. "Come with me."

Lord Tyrell walked them down the hill towards his camp, his own guards in tow. It was somewhat of a walk down the pathway, which zigzagged down the slopes from Storm's End itself until it wound up cutting straight through the camp laid out below. Donal Noye looked anxiously back at the castle every so often. No wonder, Davos thought. It was the only home he'd ever had. Mace Tyrell did not fail to notice it, and when he asked, the secret knight simply answered that he was thinking of his friends who had died there. He kept silent after that. The outskirts of the camp came soon after, a strange assortment of rubbish and splendor.

"Steward come forward," Lord Tyrell said, waving one of his men forward after the group stopped for a breather. "Devan Waters, this is my current steward, Ser Jon Fossoway. I told you about compensation for your troubles?"

"Aye, you did," Davos said. He would need money to secure passage to Gulltown where his wife and sons waited for him.

"Bring him to the waterfront Merchants' Guild and see what you can do for him," Lord Tyrell told his steward. "Let it never be said I am not a generous man."

"That will be no concern on my watch," Jon said. "What about the other prisoner you freed?"

"I will convey Donal Noye to my servants so they can bring him to a healer. It is not far. It is no concern of yours. Devan Waters... This is likely where we say farewell. It is not often that I would help a humble shipman, so I doubt we shall meet again. If the weather allows it, you shall depart this very evening."

"I will farewell to my friend now, then," Davos said, walking back to Donal Noye. "Thank you, friend." The two men shook hands. "I will never forget the courage you had to attempt to aid me."

"Nor I," the smith-turned-knight said gruffly. He took seven steps to join Lord Tyrell, who had resumed his stride, then turned around one last time. He hesitated. "Gods be with you." He departed a knight. Davos watched him leave. After a time, Donal Noye disappeared amongst the others, and Davos moved to follow the steward.

"I don't understand why Lord Tyrell wants to compensate you," Jon said, walking into a side venue leading further downhill.

"I don't know myself," Davos admitted. "But if I had to guess, he intends it as a show of generosity." They hastened their pace, as the curving way steepened and the tents grew sparser, though passerby did not.

"It is not my station to ask why."

"He wants to be generous. You could give him what he wants, I suppose," Davos said, wondering if he could get away with hinting at a high reward.

"He appointed me to this position because I could be relied upon to follow his orders to the letter. I have no intention of breaking that habit." The smell of the sea grew stronger the further they went, until at last the path broke into a small harbor of sorts. There were tables laid out beneath pavilions of plain cloth, marked with signs. Davos could not help but look at the docks, which were of a queer construction. Pillars of solid black stone thrust out just above the water, with planks laid out between them to create a walkway. Davos almost asked why it was built so, until he realized that he would be better off pretending that he had been here before. Discretion was an essential skill of a smuggler, after all. Caution above all else.

After he walked absentmindedly for a time in the steward's tow, he found himself before one table. Jon slammed Davos's right hand onto the hard surface.

"Done looking?"

"Aye." Davos rubbed where it had hit. He hoped he had not appeared too curious. Although he could play the role of a merchant unfamiliar with the area, which would also have explained the wreck. Yes, that would work better.

"This is where the Merchants' Guild plies its transactions for the camp. If there is something I can get you that Lord Tyrell would want for you, it would be here."

"Tis, true." The lone man seated behind the table stood up, still sifting through stacks of papers flapping in the wind in a bid to free themselves from the stones that pinned them down. "If you offer enough coinage, we would be pleased to provide you with whatever amenities you ask." Ser Jon Fossoway took a long, hard look at Davos. Was he wondering if he deserved it? Davos had no idea, but he tried to look deserving, whatever that was supposed to look like.

"Do you have a seaworthy trading vessel?" the steward finally asked. "One that is in good condition and requires only one to man properly?" The guildsman sat back down and snatched up another paper. He read it for a moment, then looked up through his eyebrows.

"We have a skiff that fits your description, good ser. A fisherman wanted to borrow it today afternoon, but if you provide... eight golden dragons, we can provide it to you immediately." Davos raised his eyebrows. That was rather expensive for a ship, even in a time of war like this.

"How much if I wait until he has finished his borrowing time allotment?" Davos asked instinctively.

Jon Fossoway gave him a nasty look, but the guildsman could not care less and promptly said, "Seven golden dragons."

"Seven hells, that is but an apple to Lord Tyrell," he snapped, and dug his hands into the fat purse at his side. "Here." Coin after golden coin clinked from his fingers, until they made a pile of seven.

"Eight dragons was the price," the guildsman chided.

"How much did he pay to borrow the boat?"

"A moon."

"Then take this." Jon dug out a silver coin and slid it over the table. "That makes seven dragons, for luck, and the amount you will have to refund your client."

"Not exactly—" the guildsman started.

"Enough haggling. Take it or leave it," Jon said. The guildsman raised his eyebrows and thought for a moment.

"Deal."

* * *

The guildsman had spoken the truth. The skiff he handed over to them on the farthest dock was in good condition, despite Davos's fears, rocking in the water in the shadow of a great cog painted all over in unadorned black.

"Is that a smuggling ship?" Davos asked the guildsman as he turned to go back ashore. "Black paint isn't exactly used by those in honorable professions."

"Ha!" The guildsman scratched behind his ear, looking up at it. "The men in there ply the most honorable trade the world's scum can get." He spat into the water. "Night's Watch. Fucking parasites. Come wartime, they send their fleet to every port in the south to levy their human harvest. This ship here has been waiting for Stannis Baratheon to surrender for almost a year now... Ha!"

"They will be disappointed," Jon Fossoway said. The guildsman laughed, and put a hand on Davos's shoulder.

"Are you pulling my leg?"

"Nay, it's true," Davos said. "Lord Tyrell agreed to let the soldiers of the garrison depart to their homes in peace, as long as they leave their weapons." Jon nodded.

"They may yet leave with one," he added. "Stannis Baratheon and his brother agreed to become his prisoners, with the only condition being that he protect them from the King, and protect them from harm."

"Flawed terms," the guildsman barked. "He should have insisted on not excluding the Wall as an option."

"Eh. He needs that option open, as a potential alternative to execution," Jon said. "I would ask that you not speak of the Watch so poorly, however. My cousin took the Black some time ago, by choice." What kind of person would go by choice? Some harbored the delusion that it was an honorable order, but from experience Davos knew better. Anyway, the guildsman realized his mistake of saying that truth, and apologized profusely, hurriedly setting off afterwards, after a few hasty farewells. The steward glared at his back.

"Seven dragons, indeed! Seven hells, a pox on that man," Jon said. "Seven Kingdoms are not enough to hold those of his like." He turned back to face Davos. "I think this is where we ourselves shall part, Devan Waters. I have more important matters to attend to at this moment, like organizing the erection of tents to hold the men on parole. If it interests you, they shall be branded on the right arm with a "R," to identify them, should they bear arms against the Crown. Mother have mercy on the man who we capture with such a mark." Davos winced. He had barely dodged the hot iron a few times in his life, but some he knew had described how it felt.

"A necessary measure," he mumbled. "Farewell." Jon dug his hand into his purse and held out a golden dragon.

"This will be more than enough to provide for your needs as a merchant, Devan Waters." He handed it over. "Don't squander it on gambling or fancy clothes like the ones you now wear. I suggest you get something more practical, not least provisions and trade goods."

"Thank you, Ser Jon," Davos said.

"Good luck," the steward said. "Use your gifts wisely. Farewell." Soon he was gone amongst the men walking to and fro atop the dock. Davos looked up at the Night's Watch cog. He shivered, then shook his head. Had he lost his nerve? He looked back at his new ship, tempted to sail away immediately. He looked down at his new coin. A golden dragon was more than he'd counted for. Not in seven voyages did he ever make this much. He almost regretted that he did not have a ship large enough to take the cargo he could buy with this, but he knew better. It was always better to spread the risk over several ventures than risk losing it all. What would his Marya, and his sons, for that matter, say if he returned empty-handed from this long journey? He would need to keep his head together. Provisions and safe trading goods, only. Then he realized he could do with a good pair of shoes.

* * *

He untied his ship's moorings that evening, under a full silver moon. The waters called him. He began rowing away, reassured by the boots on his feet and the barrels of water, fish, and onions he'd tucked away in the compartments below. As he cleared the Night's Watch cog with a good few pulls of his oars, three men in cloaks came treading side-by-side down the dock. The man in the middle sagged between the other two. His legs almost dragged on the planks, moving as if only out of habit, and his arms rested on the shoulders of his companions, who helped him up the gangway and onto the deck, where the men disappeared from Davos's sight. Was that their new prisoner? Stannis? He thought almost to shout and ask, but they were already gone. Davos's boat drifted past the end of the dock and into the open sea. He pulled in his oars and with a deftness of more than a hundred voyages, unfolded his sails. Stannis Baratheon deserved better than to be sent to freeze in the shadow of the Wall. Davos had good reason to be in high spirits, but the thought pulled his heart into his stomach. Why was he getting so sentimental all of a sudden? Nevertheless, he climbed to his feet, and waved his hand to Storm's End, where the giant banner of the stag no longer flew. He hoped in all his heart for those he had met there, even the ones who'd prodded him in the back that morning. He wished them well. He'd learned a song from a septon once, and now he began to sing. In his unpracticed voice the rhymes came skewed, but in his heart their warmth began to tell. "Let them know a better day," he whispered. The song ended. The night began.


	7. Chapter 6: Treachery

**Chapter 6**: _Treachery_

**Jaime**

King Aerys II ate supper in his solar, as he always did. Jaime Lannister stood guard with Lewyn Martell this night, the only other Kingsguard remaining in King's Landing to guard the King. It was quite the parody of duty, Lewyn Martell had remarked some nights ago, that five of the Kingsguard were, as it stood, with the Prince instead. If the winds blew this way much longer, they might as well become the Princeguard, if only Rhaegar was still alive to name them so. Only the waning of his drowse and sounds in the wall kept him from going further then, but now the Dornishman's tongue was held tight as a bowstring, for he had fresher memories now of how the King thought.

The taster went through the dishes arrayed on the table one by one, making sure to mix every sauce and drink before he took his share, for the King had recently realized it was possible to poison only part of a dish and thus elude suspicion. Not far behind the taster's fork and knife and spoon followed those of the King, with which he gingerly picked and pried pieces onto his plate, which gradually grew fuller. Eventually the taster bowed out, and the King began his meal.

"Ser Jaime," the King said. Jaime paused for a moment. The King rarely spoke to his guards. Nevertheless he knelt.

"Your Grace?"

"Join me for supper," the King prodded. Jaime stared. "Go on! Take a seat." Jaime obeyed. "You may take off your helm, my good knight." Lewyn shifted in his armor at the door. "Ser Lewyn, you may leave. Guard my wife's door instead." _From the King, _Jaime thought, setting his helm on his lap. He watched the Dornish knight leave. The door slammed shut. "Take what you like, ser. I do not mind at all," the King said, returning to his plate. Jaime reluctantly followed suit, taking some morsels and putting them on an empty plate. Soon he too took to the meal.

"Thank you, Your Grace," Jaime said at last, when they both were finished. He didn't know what else to say.

"It was a pleasure and but a trifle, Ser Jaime." The King nudged his plate off to the side and crossed his arms over his flowing beard, leaning back in his chair with a smile. If the King were not so unkempt, he could have passed for Prince Rhaegar. He would sometimes manage it, now and then, if he was in a good mood. He continued. "I hope to give your father a heady reward for winning the battle my son lost." Jaime looked him in the eye. Father and the King hated each other. The King was utterly unforgiving, so what was he getting at with this? Winning a battle for him was far from the first service Tywin Lannister had rendered to him, so why the sudden change?

Finally he managed to reply, "What reward are you thinking of, your Grace?" The king smiled warmly.

"I have disinherited Rhaegar's children. Their father proved his blood unworthy when he let that Stark girl yank him from his duties by the cock. And they are Dornish brood besides. They are scarcely fit to sit the throne." Jaime looked anxiously at the door, half-expecting Ser Lewyn to burst through with some retort. But the door did not move. What was the King thinking? To disinherit the heir? That would mean… "I mistreated your father, and I believe this gives me a splendid opportunity to make amends, Ser Jaime. You do understand?"

"Viserys is the heir?" Jaime blurted out.

"And I propose that Cersei marry him, aye." The King poured a sliver of Arbor gold into his Arbor red. "I may even make your father my Hand, once more." Jaime only heard the first sentence. His sister would be coming! Cersei's plan would come to fruition after all. He would not have forever stand alone in celibate vigil, for she would be there to comfort him. Oh, what a— The King interrupted his thoughts. "All I ask, is that he continue his loyal service," Aerys said, and tipped half the mixture past his lips. He swallowed it, and laid his cup back on the table with a _thump_. "I see that the honor on your house I offer does not go missed?"

Jaime nodded. "Not at all, Your Grace." The King nodded back ponderously.

"I have an important task for you, then."

Jaime moved to rise to his feet to kneel on the floor, but the King waved him to merely stand.

"No point in that, Ser Jaime. This is not a great task worthy of song, nor word of it meant to be bartered on the market. Speak to none of this but your father. You will ride for his camp…" He looked out the window and saw the sun preparing to set. "Tonight. I have a steed and a company of riders arranged to accompany you from the Gate of the Gods on your journey up the Kingsroad. Remember, my sworn sword, speak freely of the disinheritance of Rhaegar's children, but of the rest speak only to your father. I will not have rumors of intrigue spreading through my court." Jaime wiped his hands and pulled on his gauntlets.

"It will be done, Your Grace," he said, and picked up his helm. He was turning to leave, when the King said, "Go now and depart." He took another swig of wine. "And remind Rossart to bring the latest band of prisoners to the throne room. I should like to see a show of fire once more." Jaime departed, mind hardened to his errands, the cruel and promising both. He knew what the King meant. So off to the Maidenvault to speak to that mad pyromancer, then onwards to the gate, he went. And as he rode from the Red Keep beneath the moon's silver gaze, he did his best to ignore the screams.

* * *

**Benjen**

There was no Stark in Winterfell. Benjen Stark watched from atop the as raw levies made their way into Moat Cailin's three moss-green towers. They came in twos, threes, some in larger groups. Some old men, but most were boys, some younger than even Benjen. They were all barely armed, and there was not a horse to their name. It was one-and-twenty days since the call for a second levy went up, and five-and-twenty since Robett Glover returned to the North with the news of Ned and Robert's deaths, and the defeat at Pinkmaiden. Benjen was not the only one to lose a brother, for Robett himself was now the Master of Deepwood Motte, his elder brother slain in the same battle. Peace was not an option now, not with the Mad King on the throne, with his affinity for fire. The royal court knew best how poorly fire and Starks mixed. With their deaths, Benjen's father Rickard and brother Brandon had seen to that.

Benjen's heart would forever be heavy, for he knew no one would never forgive him if they learned what he'd done. Lyanna, the willful girl, would never forgive him. Not Father nor Mother nor Brandon nor Ned. _Mother have mercy_, Wendel Manderly would have said, but the knight was dead and rotting, with all those brave men and true, who ventured South to avenge their lord. They did not have to die. If they but learned their vengeance slept at their very doorstep. At Winterfell. Benjen shivered, sweat running down his neck under his coat, like the wine Lyanna poured on his head that day, when he dared to laugh at her tears for Rhaegar's song—

"A fleet of longships has been spotted sailing up the Fever. They will be here before nightfall," Lord Medger Cerwyn said, climbing up to the battlements. He was still spindly and weak from his flight North, but he nonetheless was fittest to become castellan of the castle in this dark hour. He stopped at Benjen's side, breathing heavily.

"So the kraken has stirred itself at last," Benjen said. Medger nodded, after catching his breath. That was no surprise. The North was very weak indeed, if it had to rally even the old and very young in its defense. Benjen steeled himself, hand going to his sword. "I will not be caught in this ruin like a boar between hounds. Draw up the garrison. We shall meet Greyjoy on the riverbank."

"Are you sure that is wise? We stand little chance in the open. I would not trust these... soldiers, to hold their ground out there. Much safer to wait here, My Lord, and harry their foraging, which they will have to do before long."

"We do not have the provisions ourselves to outlast them. Which you, as castellan of this place, ought to know," Benjen snapped. He patted the lord's shoulder as if to soften the sting of his words. "Battle it will be, Lord Cerwyn. Battle it will be." Medger nodded, resigned.

"I will summon the men out." He pulled an old blackened horn from his pocket, and set it to his dry-cracked lips. He blew it twice.

* * *

The sun was setting when at last the longships set their prows on the riverbanks. Benjen Stark drew his sword to steel himself for the battle, looking down the rolling slope from atop his black horse. Behind him, two thousand blades glinted red in the dying light, like the bronze edges wielded in the Age of Heroes. But the ragged boys and elders who held them were not the make of great warriors, and no great banners of cloth heralded their pride before the enemy. Benjen watched his breath mist in the air, wondering if this would be his last evening. He deserved worse than death in battle, but all the reason more to seek it then, he decided.

The Ironborn warriors leapt into the shallows and waded ashore into a swift-forming shieldwall with a discipline forged through years of experience. It was an intimidating display, and they clearly knew it. They had to be stopped and driven into the river before they could finish it. His mouth was opened to call the charge, when a horn rang thrice in the river valley, the sign of the Others north of the Wall, and south of it, the call for parley. As if to make clearer the message, a lone rider in black emerged from the throng at a trot, raising a bone-pale banner affixed to a bone-white spear.

"They call for a truce!" Medger Cerwyn shoved his way to the front. "My Lord, it has to be a trick!"

"Cut the distance between Greyjoy and our men by half, and see them show the truth of it," Benjen shouted back. "I shall meet this emissary of theirs. Even the Ironmen must keep to the sanctity of a parley." The lord tried to protest, but soon Benjen heard none of it and urged his horse forward until at last his voice faded in the brisk evening wind.

The Ironman rider pulled his horse short five paces from Benjen, who had come to a stop, and thrust the butt of his spear into the ground. He wore a black surcoat with the Greyjoy kraken emblazoned in gold upon his chest, and on his head rested a sea-grey kraken-helm with tentacles of blood-red gold that ran in streams down its painted sides.

"Who are you that invades the North?" Benjen shouted over the wind which roared anew.

"I am he that aids this land," the rider said, his voice thunderous from within his helm. He pulled it off, and laid it in the crook of his arm amongst the reins. "And its people." For a moment Benjen thought it was Robert, for the man's hair was long and black and his eyes smiled bluer than the summer sky. He chided himself in his mind. The lords of Pyke were known too for their black hair.

"Do not deign to deceive me, servant of Quellon Greyjoy," he warned. "Your people have raided these shores for as long and longer than living memory has recorded. Tell me why I should not call my men to put yours to the sword right now."

"It appears you already have, Lord Benjen Stark," the emissary replied with a smile, looking past him.

"Seven hells," Benjen muttered. "I called them forward to force your hand." He nudged his horse a step or so closer.

"We come for war, but not against the Starks of Winterfell. So call them off, so we may speak in peace."

"They will come no further than this," Benjen assured him.

"Death be yours if that is not true," the emissary said. "I am Euron Greyjoy, son of the late Quellon Greyjoy, Lord Reaper of Pyke. Not a day after he died, my brother Balon took up the Driftwood Crown. He styles himself now King of the Iron Isles."

"He means to war against the Iron Throne _now_?" Benjen raised his eyebrows, frowning. _This _fool wanted to become their ally?

"He has already begun," Euron Greyjoy replied. "My King leads ten thousand men to aid in the defense of Seagard and perhaps even Riverrun, whilst my brother Victarion sows destruction on the coast. Every shore town, village, and farm south of Ironman's Bay shall be sacked before the year is out."

"What does he ask of us in return?" Benjen scoffed. "That we kneel to the Seastone Chair?"

"To the contrary," Euron said. "My brother asks nothing of you, merely that you continue the fight honorably."

"We have fought beyond the demands of honor," Benjen said, looking back at his men. They had finally ceased their tread forward, and now wavered as the Ironmen stood ready to fight. Turning back to Euron, he continued, "The King who sits on the Iron Throne wants us all to burn. We have no choice but in desperation to raise what arms are left to us."

"Fortune favors you, then. The kraken of my house has them in abundance." Euron smiled.

"Do you give me your word that you speak the truth?"

"I speak for the Iron Isles when I say before the eyes of gods and men, we are your allies," Euron replied. "Our enemies are shared, and there is great plunder to be had in the South, as opposed to the North." Euron's men, who were no longer out of earshot, cheered. Benjen was at a loss as to why they were cheering, for they would get none if they remained here, but he kept his mouth shut on that.

"You are here then to aid in the defense of the Causeway, then?" Benjen asked. "And why did you form your men in battle array? You are damned lucky we did not kill you all."

Euron laughed. "With that rabble over there? I think not. We wanted to give you a glimpse of Ironborn prowess before I made clear the intent. And I do admit, my captains did want to see your people shake in their boots a little, first," Euron said. "But yes, we are here to help you defend Moat Cailin." Benjen Stark ran his fingers under his halfhelm.

"Then set your camp and prepare for battle," he said at last, and sheathed his sword. He spurred his horse forward a little and offered his hand. Euron took it, and shook it twice, firmly.

"Well met, Lord Stark," he said. "I am sure this will benefit the both of us."

* * *

**Jaime**

The wind whistled a jaunty tune in his ear as the sun rose once again. It was the first time in months Jaime had been allowed to leave the walls of King's Landing behind, and he was not one to spend this freedom idly. The morning before he'd insisted on a hearty breakfast at the first inn they came upon. The goldcloaks were not ones to complain of it, either, and they were decent company on the road. Tradesmen on the way passed word about the distance to the Targaryen camp, but nevertheless the sun was sunk beneath the treetops when at last Jaime found the place. Squeezed into a narrow plain beside a rubbish-choked stream, the tents were packed in a manner akin to that found in the city, with common soldiers leant against trees or huddled round campfires with what food they had.

Jaime and his escort met a group of his father's pickets not far out from there, and they were all too eager to lead the way. The goldcloaks went on their way soon after, in search of whatever caught their fancy for the night. Jaime followed the pickets on foot, after he tied his steed to a tree. Tywin Lannister's tent, a monstrous tent of red and gold silk, was hard to miss, even in the falling dark, and soon he stood at the front flaps, wondering if he should wait. He did not have the chance to decide, as a guard quickly emerged and pulled him in.

"Son." Jaime's eyes adjusted to the candlelight to see Father in armor painted red and gold, reclining on his golden chair. A table bearing dozens of candles had been swept to the side with visible markings in the ground to show it. Jaime stepped forward, as the guard bowed and passed him on the way out.

"Father," Jaime muttered, and knelt.

"I am not your king, Ser Jaime," Tywin said. "So stop kneeling." He gestured to Jaime's side. "You may sit on that chair, if your journey has tired you." Jaime stood up, but did not move to accept the offer. "Still proud as ever, I see." Tywin stood up, and stepped up to him until they were eye to eye. He was slightly shorter than his son, but did not look it.

"The King sent me to speak to you," Jaime said. "Cersei can marry Viserys. Rhaegar's children have been disinherited..." That was one of the first times he saw Father truly surprised.

"Disinherited...?" Tywin put his chin in his hand and began walking in circles. He stopped suddenly and looked Jaime straight on. "Why?"

"He said he wants to make amends, and he is also considering reinstating you as his Hand, if you show him loyalty."

Tywin settled back into his chair.

"Are you sure of this? This must be some trick. I am sure of it." He looked down at the ground, deep in thought. "And yet..." He looked up. "Is this a secret?"

"All but the disinheritance of Aegon and Rhaenys," Jaime replied.

Tywin's green eyes caught a glint of candlelight, and he said, "So he intends to drive a wedge between us. Split Jon Connington and his followers from the rest. Furthermore, the betrothal of Prince Viserys and my daughter would make enemies of them all, but it would bring us closer to the Crown. Reinstating me as Hand would give me the authority to keep them at bay, but would tie my fortunes to Aerys even closer."

"Is that not good for the both of you?"

Tywin grimaced. "That celibacy cloak on your shoulders must go, and your oaths as well. As it stands, you are but his hostage, and that must change. You belong at Casterly Rock in a crimson cloak, not in King's Landing as the royal family's plaything."

Jaime swallowed. That hit the mark almost _too_ close. "But surely Cersei will need all the protection she can get, if she weds the King's son."

" In the rubble of the Rebellion, there will be many highborn women unmarried. Catelyn Tully, is one, or perhaps one of Lord Tyrell's daughters..." Tywin climbed to his feet, and said harshly, "I will not have you speak of your vows this night. Before the year is out, you shall have a bride of your own, heirs to beget. You are my firstborn son, and I will not have the mad fancy of a king shackle you from your birthright."

"But my sister needs protection! The greatest knights of the Realm are gone, wherever Rhaegar sent them. They are faithful to him, and thus to his sons. I would be Cersei's most loyal protector—"

"More loyal, than her own husband?" Tywin snapped. "Look, Son, your place is not with her, I have men enough for that. I need an heir!"

"Gerion says Tyrion will make a fine heir," Jaime said. "Why should they care that he is a dwarf if he is your son?"

"Go," Tywin said. There was no fury in his movements, but in his cold green eyes it danced as a whirlwind of fire and ash. Jaime stepped back, and made to leave. "Tell King Aerys that I accept his terms, and speak of this to no one" Tywin leant over the table and quickly wrote something down. He poured red wax from his candle over it once it was rolled up, and pressed it with his ring. "Bring this to him, and show it to no one. My daughter's betrothal to the heir, your retrieval from the Kingsguard, and in return my eternal loyalty to House Targaryen as his right Hand." Jaime reluctantly returned to his father, and took the sealed letter. "His signature would suffice to seal the pact," Tywin said. "Go back to King's Landing, and tell him that." Jaime hesitated at the threshold, wondering if truly that was all his father would say to his own son. They had not spoken in almost two years. Jaime looked back, and saw the Lord of Casterly Rock back in his chair, perhaps preparing to doze. Their eyes did not meet for a second as he watched. Jaime felt something welling up in him, and thrust himself from that cloth. For a moment he stood alone in the dark, truly alone. Then he set off.

Jaime was untying his horse when a hooded man stepped out of the shadows, saying in a familiar voice "On an errand, Ser Jaime?" Jaime twitched, but did not stop working at the rope. Finally, in frustration, he pulled his sword halfway from its scabbard, and cut it.

"That is none of your business," he replied. "Who are you, and why are you here?"

The stranger pulled down his hood, revealing hair that glinted red even in the moonlight. "I am Jon Connington, the Lord of Griffin's Roost, but I think you know that," he said, looking at the fire-dotted camp behind him before continuing. "Why am I here, you ask? I would ask the same of you. I suppose you are indeed on an errand for the King? For your father? The manner of your going does pique one's interest. I suspect there is something to it that they did not want me to know?"

Jaime scowled, at last sliding his sword back into its sheath. "They want you to know that Aegon and Rhaenys have been disinherited." He took the chance to twist the dagger a bit and continued. "They are no longer in line for the throne." Jon leaned forward and Jaime away from him. Jaime stepped back and mounted his horse, picking up the reins. "I shall be off, then."

"Not so fast." Jon grabbed the reins and held them tight. "Firstly, that rotten decree will not stand under the scrutiny of gods and men. Second, I have a word of my own to share with you." His face shone silver in the moonlight where he stood, and his thin smile told it all. "Your father came to the battlefield under a Baratheon banner. He did not tell you that, did he? It would have meant your death. But I bought the battle and your life with a hard-won Valyrian steel great sword, one I cast down from the hands of Eddard Stark himself… It could well have gone differently, Ser Jaime. It could have gone very differently, and only your father's greed stopped him signing your death warrant." Jon Connington threw the reins down and crossed his arms, his voice thick with contempt. "Your father holds no love in that stone heart of his. His only loyalty lies in gold. I saw him betray his late wife, and now I see him betraying his own son. You are nothing to him."


	8. Chapter 7: The Path to Treason

**Chapter 7**: The Path to Treason

**Jon**

"Quellon Greyjoy turned on us," the messenger said. The assembled lords, knights, and captains looked at him, all manner of surprised expressions running down the tables where they were feasting.  
Jon broke the brief silence. "At this stale hour? The way of rebellion has run its course." His mug of steaming hippocras clinked among the laden plates. "What a fool." The messenger put both hands on the table and gathered himself.

"They killed Lord Darry and his army as well," he said. "And broke the siege of Riverrun, milord, though they only hold the north riverbank."

Ser Raymun Darry stood up, his seat clattering to the cold stone floor. "What about my brothers?" Even five lords away, Jon could see his knuckles whiten against the wood.

"I... do not know," the messenger mumbled. His face had grown sweaty from the warmth of Castle Stokeworth's hearths, and his surcoat, though clean, bore brown-pink stains and slashes that told of battle and blood.

"I demand an answer!"

"Calm yourself, cousin." Ser Jonothor Darry, who was seated beside him, pulled him back into his chair. "He probably was taken prisoner, not killed." Raymun's face twisted with anger, but managed to restrain himself and did not rise into another fury.

Lord Leo Lefford waited to be sure that would continue, then said, "What of Kevan Lannister?"

Tywin Lannister looked at his bannerman and then the messenger, who after a moment's hesitation said, "Kevan Lannister and the bulk of his men are alive and well. He sent me to tell you he intends to keep the rebels bottled up."

Jon took a deep breath and let it out slowly. This was not an unmitigated disaster as he had initially feared, but Lord Darry was one of the few he could depend on to defend the rights of Rhaegar's children. He would be sorely missed when Jon would attempt to restore the rightful inheritance. _Curse that fool in Pyke_, he thought. Lord Quellon's folly was unfathomable, especially after receiving Jon's letter of the decisive defeat of the Rebellion. How could he have been so impossible foolish? But no matter. This pointless Ironborn rebellion would be crushed, like all the last ones. As silence gave way to whispers, a plan formed in Jon's mind. If the Royal army would be drawn away from King's Landing, would it be possible for him to bring his own soldiers and at sword-point make the King restore Rhaegar's son? He would need allies, but he had a few he could depend on. _It is usually the few that determine the way of things_, he reminded himself, remembering what he had read of past wars. A few archers brought down the Blackfyre Rebellion, so surely a small army with the aid of the Seven could force a foolish King to do what was right? His thoughts went back on course. If Tywin went to the Riverlands or even the Westerlands, to gain the glory of crushing the fools, he would be away from King's Landing. Jaime Lannister had come a few days ago with some secret message for Tywin Lannister, from the King himself. _Probably an attempt to reconcile_. And if it was that, then it would be crucial that the former Hand be confined from the action.

"This insult cannot be borne," Jon said at last. "If what you say is true, the Greyjoys will reap what they have sown, though deny it they will." He stood up, gathering himself. Perhaps there was still a chance to restore the inheritance to Rhaegar's children. "We should double back and finish them off with another decisive blow, and it is not too late to recall the levy."

Tywin Lannister, who had so far merely brooded in his chair, nodded. Good. "They were indeed fools to declare against the Crown, but we should act quickly. If they reinforce the Bloody Gate, the Ironmen may embolden the Valemen to continue the fight, in spite of our hostages."

"My father marches with Ser Barristan to subdue Moat Cailin, but a raven would suffice to turn their efforts to the High Road if need be," Ser Stevron Frey said from his seat near the hearth, nose glistening red from an abundance of sweat and drink. Jon Connington nodded, and most men arrayed there said their agreements.

"Then the Twins would not begrudge us passage over the Green Fork?" Tywin said.

"I believe he will spare you the trouble of tolls, this once," Stevron said, chuckling. The men laughed with him but Jon knew better. The prickly Lord Walder Frey would disagree with his heir. Tywin Lannister shit gold, after all, and thousands of men crossing a bridge would many times surpass the yearly tolls. Jon chuckled at the thought. Tywin Lannister would march north with his lickspittles, and in the night Rhaegar's loyal men could ride with Jon for King's Landing and bring the royal inheritance to rights by reason or force or both. Whatever it took. It could become treason, but a good cause would justify it. He stood up, hardening his resolve. "All in favor of giving the Ironborn a taste of steel?"

"Aye!" a lord heard, followed by another, and then a hurricane of ayes. Jon was sure he had heard not a single dissenter in the ranks, as the lords swelled up and all stood to their feet, raising their cups like swords pledged to a liege. They were all eager for war once more. Fortunately, the men of true hearts, Jon knew, would be willing to set aside their pursuit of glory and fight for the greater justice once he told them his plan. "To another great victory!" They raised their cups above their heads and drank.

"I take it is then concluded," Tywin said, standing up as well at last, "We march north once more, to the Twins, then onwards to clear them out."

"Aye!" Jon shouted, and a torrent of voices followed. Inside, Jon chortled with glee. Lord Lannister was playing right into his hands. By committing himself to the task in the Riverlands, Tywin would find himself forced to remain absent as the inheritance would be sorted out once and for all. Then Lord Lannister brought a hammer to his plan.

"Five thousand men of my retinue with my brother Tygett will proceed to King's Landing," Tywin said. "To give our prisoner train suitable accommodations." Jon seethed but nodded with the rest. That stood to ruin everything. But he should have foreseen the former Hand would grasp for power in all directions, most of all the Throne. Perhaps Jon could attach men of his choosing to the war party? Perhaps the Kingsguard Ser Jonothor Darry?

So Jon kept silent, as the words of a war council flowed back into the rut of the evening banquet. And he realized that if the Ironborn were in the Riverlands, odds were that they were raiding the Westerlands and Reach as well. No doubt Tywin was already planning to send men and ravens back to Casterly Rock, but it would be important to know how many. If he sent the bulk west, Jon would have a freer hand in King's Landing. Jon stood up and walked with his cup around the table until he stood over the Lord of Casterly Rock, ignoring the glances of those who had to squeeze their bellies against the tables to let him through.

"No doubt the Ironborn raid the Westerlands as we speak," Jon said, leaning over. "Lord Lannister. Do you have enough men there to protect your lands?"

Tywin looked up from his cut of pork. Some others, mostly his bannermen glanced over again, but soon returned to their meals. He snatched his golden goblet of wine, and turned his chair around until he faced Jon. "I have all the men I need there." He drank. "Twenty thousand men, once they have been mustered."

"Spread over eleven hundred miles of open coast."

"I intend to send another five thousand men to reinforce the defenses. But a good much of the coast is as suited for raiding as a caltrop-strewn field for cavalry." Tywin's cup clattered to the table. "You do remember the cliffs on the Coastal Road, on the way to the tourney I held seven years agoat Lannisport to celebrate the birth of Viserys?" Jon remembered that one. The King had grown wroth when the crowd cheered Lord Lannister more, and Jon only later learned the King had repaid the slight with a rejection of his Hand's request for a royal betrothal.  
After a sip of wine, Tywin continued. "I would worry far more for the Reach. The Shield Isles are apt to be seized and by now probably are. There is little to be done of it but from retaking them. When the Redwyne and Royal fleets round Dorne in search of Lord Greyjoy's head."

"The Royal Fleet will undoubtedly be required to subdue the Vale," Jon said.

"The Iron Throne will have enough hostages to make a bridge over the Bay of Crabs." Tywin brought his cup to his lips and set it back down without swallowing a drop. "When the Ironmen are swiftly crushed, the remaining lords of the Vale who elude us will be content to kneel. When it grows clear the King does not demand their heads as payment."

"Nay, their ashes instead, to dance in," Jon said after looking to make sure nobody else was listening. "Immolation is his favored way of execution and has been for years. Do you think that will change when your brother arrives with these hostages you speak of?"

"Go to King's Landing, by all means, if that would comfort you," Tywin said, arrogance flowing from his mouth with every word. "I believe my brother will convince the King to refrain from executing the prisoners we truly need."

"I think I will go with him then!" Jon put his cup to his lips for a long, feignedly rash drink of his own. "He is merely a third son, and lacks the clout of lordship."

Tywin shrugged. "What makes you think you will do any better? But if your pride wills it, so be it. Have it your way."

"I will," Jon said, scowling. He meant it. Jon returned to his seat without another word, and spent the remainder of the feast exchanging words with the handful he knew to be loyal, trying to convince them to go with him. He did not say why, but he hinted that answers would be forthcoming if they came to his tent later for a council.

* * *

Raymun Darry was the first who came to mind, when Jon was thinking of those loyal men, and the was the first to enter Jon's tent that night.

"Welcome," Jon said. He had set aside several chairs in a circle around the brazier that lit the tent, and now he gestured Raymun to take a seat beside him. Darry did not join him immediately.

"I know why you asked me to come," he said. Jon raised his eyebrows. "Are you sure nobody is eavesdropping?"

"Only my soldiers for a good hundred feet in all directions," Jon replied, "And they are all sworn to me. Nor would they know of the importance of this discussion."

Raymun did not look very reassured, but he sat down nevertheless. "You want to restore the rightful inheritance."

"Who would not, in my position?"

Raymun firmed his voice. "It is treason."

"The King is mad and unfit for the throne," Jon said.

"That takes us down a path I do not like. Right in the footsteps of Robert Baratheon." Raymun looked away for a second, then continued, "Or do you not remember the execution of Lord Stark and his son? They did less than you would now do."

"I remember too well. No doubt he would burn every prisoner Tygett brings him. That includes the hostages who we need alive. That is why I will ride with Tygett Lannister tomorrow. If they burn, all hope of ending this without unneccessary bloodshed will be gone."

"The Ironborn will have to be defeated for that to work," Raymun said. "But that is why I intend to follow you to the capital. As you know, my father and brothers are probably prisoners of the rebels. What do you think would happen to them if the king executes Jason Mallister? His son will call for their heads. And I have no doubt his uncle Rodrik would wield the sword himself. They were close brothers, Jason and Rodrik..."

"Many of us stand to lose if the King has his way," Jon said. He looked Raymun right in the eye. "But is that the only reason you have?"

"Oh come on, Jon. You have known me for years, a close, _loyal _friend of the Prince. You know as well as I do that I would lay down my life for him. And now that he is dead, his children. What do I care that they are half-Dornish? Their inheritance must be restored."

"Indeed," Jon said. "Then let us proceed. This is not something to be taken lightly. But justice must be served, in one way or another."

"Oh, spare me that." Raymun stood up and walked away, pressing his hand against the tent on the way out. He looked over his shoulder. "I will gather my men and ride with you for King's Landing on the morrow." Then he was gone. And immediately Ser Jonothor Darry replaced him, limping under his white cloak until he, exhausted, fell into a chair across from Jon.

"Seven help you if you did not have a good reason to summon me here," the knight grumbled, warming his hands and looking over the fire.

"I am a godly if cautious man," Jon said. "Welcome, friend."

"Go on."

"The King will execute every prisoner he gets his hands on. If Jason Mallister dies, his son will probably execute your brother and nephews, _if_they are indeed not slain."

"And there are many like me, I know."

"Do you see where I am getting at?"

"The King's will must be done," Jonothor said.

"The King hurt our cause more than Robert Baratheon ever did. His judgement is his own worst enemy, and it must be forestalled so peace may return to the realm."

"What do you propose? I will not be Criston Cole the Second, mind you."

"I ask merely that you suspend the King's judgement for the prisoners until they have been dealt with in a way that does not imperil the lives of his loyal men. I should like to convince him to restore the inheritance of Prince Aegon, but I imagine you do not see things eye-to-eye with me?"

"I believe Prince Aegon should be restored as Crown Prince, but he is just a boy. He can fight for his inheritance later, when he is grown and the King frail."

"And that, Ser, is where you are wrong." Oberyn Martell strode into the tent and sat beside Jonothor, like he was doing his best to make the knight uncomfortable.

"Where did you come from?" Jon said. He had not expected the Prince of Dorne to come now, what with the war being almost over.

"Dorne," Oberyn said. "But that is probably not the answer you were looking for. Truth be told, I wanted to come help against the Rebellion. But as of late, I have learned something that boils my blood. Not the hottest day in the desert would have angered me as much as learning how my sister and her children have been _cast aside_." The Red Viper's eyes caught a slithering, fiery glint. "I knew the Prince had something against her. Why else would he crown that Stark bitch the Queen of Love and Beauty? But that his father would _go this far_..." Oberyn snorted. "He disinherited her children. They aren't even Targaryens anymore, if his word be true. Princes still, but no thanks to him."

"What are you are getting at, boy?" Jonothor Darry said. "Get to the point."

Oberyn gave him a nasty look. "Aegon will not live to see out the year if the King gets his heir betrothed, which he will seek no doubt, to secure his position against us. And whoever the bride's father will be, will want my nephew gone permanently, perhaps remembering the last time a pretender with a valid claim was allowed to live."

The tent fell silent. Surely Oberyn did not believe Daemon Blackfyre was right to rebel? But Jon kept those thoughts to himself, and he was the first to speak. "You believe Viserys's future goodfather, whoever he will be, would murder a boy of the royal family?" he said. Even he was surprised. But then Jon remembered a man who could well fit that mold... "There are powerful fathers who would do such a thing," he admitted moments later. "But I do agree with Ser Jonothor. The most pressing concern is the treatment of the hostages. Leave them to the King's mercy, and none of our fellows in rebel hands are safe from reprisal."

"I couldn't care less about your fellows, but I will help you if you help me. I have five hundred knights and two thousand foot at my back, but they are only useful to you if you pledge on your honor that you will restore the rightful inheritance to my nephew and niece."

"Extortion," Jonothor said. "Conduct worthy of a Prince, I'm sure."

"I will not ask you to do what this Prince of Dorne asks," Jon said hurriedly. "But I do ask that you help me convince the King, by force if necessary, that the prisoners mustn't be rashly used for kindling." He stood up, and walked around the fire to Oberyn. "Is that enough for you?" Oberyn glared. Jon continued. "He is only a Kingsguard, and can only do so much to help you in your goal before his oaths are violated. Leave him be. We each want, no, _need _to convince the King of something, but alone cannot impress upon him the need to listen." Jon gestured at them both. "I am depending on you"—The men both glared—"To cooperate. You both seek justice, different ends perhaps, but there is no reason you cannot share the way."

"Whatever you just said, Jon Connington, I would not put it that way," Ser Myles Mooton said, parting the tent cloth to enter the firelight. He'd walked in with a limp and a staff he'd used since the Battle of the Bells, and his face was graced with scars with a broken nose to match. Jon quickly moved to help the bold knight into a chair.

"Welcome, friend," Jon said. "This is Prince Oberyn, and this is Ser Jonothor Darry." Myles nodded slowly as he sat down, eyes darting between the three other men. Jon continued. "As you are aware, King Aerys did the most vile deed of disinheriting his grandchildren without cause."

Myles scowled. "The bastard. What do you plan to do about it?"

"Convince the bastard by force, of course," Jonothor said. His eyebrows flit up and down as if by a great struggle, and he continued, "Make him see reason and spare the lives of the most important rebel prisoners, and secondly..." He glared at Oberyn. "Secondly, Jon and the Prince of Dorne wish to make Prince Aegon of Dorne a Prince of Westeros, and thus return to him his eventual _rightful _place on the throne." The tent fell silent.

Myles looked at Jon through his eyebrows. "That would be treason."

"Manhandling the King is nothing new," Jon said. "When kings were unready for rule, a Regency would handle matters of the Realm. I see little difference now, merely that Aerys is not too young, but mad. Maegor would find in him a rival in cruelty and lack of sense, where Rhaegar told me the rebels should be spared where possible. Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark are dead. Jon Arryn rebelled to protect them from the King's misplaced wrath, and he is on a ship to the Wall as we speak. So there is no reason for the war to continue but their thirst for vengeance, a drink they know is now forever beyond their reach. There is no sensible reason for this madness to continue. Unless the King gives them one, which, no doubt, he intends to do." Jon raised his voice. "If Aerys has his way, he would burn all bridges to peace but their utter destruction, which would beggar the Realm. I would not see lives and gold wasted so rashly, friends." Jon pointed at the other men. "It is our duty, Myles, Jonothor, Oberyn. We have no choice in the matter, lest our children curse our blind loyalty and name us cowards."

"No children of mine would do such a thing," Jonothor said, wincing, and making a show of brushing dust off his shoulders. "But I see your point." The Kingsguard stood up with no small amount of effort. "I don't know about you, but I will support you, Lord Connington, at least in convincing the King of the need for mercy. If only because it is in the King's best interests."

"As will I," Myles said, rising to his feet, still leaning on his staff. "The rebels do not deserve mercy, but if saving them is required to restore the rightful inheritance to Rhaegar's son, so be it."

Oberyn stood up. "I concur. The King has made an insult that shall not be borne in silence. Whatever it takes, I will see my nephew on the Iron Throne. But..." Anger writhed almost to the surface of the skin on his face. "Where, Jon, did Lyanna Stark take Rhaegar when this war began?"

"The Red Mountains, my Prince," Jonothor replied, before Jon could say no. "In Dorne."


	9. Chapter 8: To the Pyre

**Chapter 8**: _To the Pyre_

**Brynden**

In the dark of dawn Brynden awoke. There was no moon, but hundreds of torches glinted red amongst polished steel and helm. Roose Bolton leant against the wooden bars of the cage, brooding over the chains that bound him, and regarding Brynden with his cold, dead eyes.

"Quite the quarters, Lord Bolton." Brynden was not surprised when no reply came. If he was being honest to himself, the man was poor company through and through. But boredom in this cold was worse, so Brynden tried again, trying to ignore the iron binding his wrists and legs, and his bruises from the road. "Are you worried for your life?"

"Not as much as your brother," Roose said after a long silence. He looked at the Lord of Riverrun, who still slept, also chained by the wrists and legs in a corner where he lay in a pile of green straw. "We are finished."

"We have had this conversation before," Brynden said.

"We should have won the battle. Ned should not have tried fighting Jon Connington in single combat. I would have brought soldiers in to do the job in a pinch, were I in his place."

"If you so strongly believe in the war against the Crown, then why were you the first to surrender your arms?"

"For the last time, Blackfish, I was not the first. But I did I have something to live for that no number of swords can win me from the grave."

"Your wife," Brynden ventured.

Bolton kept his face cold, but replied, "If I go to the Wall or the pyre, her unborn child is my House's only hope. If it survives."

"My niece Lysa almost died some months past when my brother had Maester Kym brew her some moon tea. After she revealed his ward had put a child in her, you see. She nearly died."

"There was something wrong with the drink." Roose shuffled more against the wall, clumsy from the bonds around his arms and legs.

"It was no secret my brother sent old Kym away for it," Brynden lied. There was nothing wrong with the moon tea. Hoster just gave it too late. It was great a shame Riverrun's loyal maester of thirty years had to pay the price.

Hoster shifted in the straw pile and groaned, opening his eyes. Brynden and Roose looked at him.

"The King will burn him, Blackfish. You know that as well as I do," Lord Bolton said. Hoster stared him in the eye, then down at his shackled feet. Brynden gazed out at the sunrise, feeling sick, even as the light warmed his cold skin. He knew the man was probably right.

But neither Tully brother could gather the courage to say it. Hoster looked at Brynden with the bearing of a corpse, a demeanor not even the dim could hide. looked away, feeling sick. Lord Lannister, that man of dubious honor, promised to do what he could to protect his brother, but they were going to King's Landing, where no Hand could stay the King's maddened wrath. If the death of Prince Rhaegar would not move Aerys to rage, he was not Aerys.

If escape was possible, Brynden would have tried it, but Rhaegar's host had brought cages and chains aplenty to the battlefield. There was no getting out of these, not least with the guards stationed around the cages.

One guard in now walked along the line cage-wagons bearing a lantern, Lannister livery gleaming faintly in the glow. For a moment Brynden thought he would pass, but then he turned and looked at the three prisoners, squinting.

"One of you Lord Roose Bolton?" he muttered, looking anxiously from side to side.

"That would be myself," Roose replied, pressing his face against the bars. The guard recoiled.

"That's you alright." He pulled something clinking out of his pocket, and worked it into the lock holding the cage's door closed. After some squeaks, the door opened, and the guard beckoned Roose out. For a moment Brynden considered making a run for it, but then he remembered his shackles, and the somewhat significant fact that the guard was armed. Brynden looked down at the other cages. As Roose crawled to the door and sidled through before it was closed again and locked, other prisoners watched. He could not recognize them in the dark, but he made out in the distance another cage door opening, and another man going through it with difficulty that was obvious even seven wagons away in the dark. Roose Bolton gave Brynden a questioning look as the guard led him off into the dim, where here and there men roused and pitched their tents for the day's march.

"He was right, you know." Hoster finally sat up.

"Tywin Lannister will keep his promise," Brynden replied, believing none of it. "We fought together in the War of the Ninepenny Kings."

"He would keep it if it is convenient to him. And it is not. Challenging the King's authority over my life would be too risky. And there would be much to gain from not doing it."

"Riverrun."

Hoster nodded. "No doubt he wishes to give it to some cousin of his. Or that tottering goodbrother of his, Emmon Frey." He pushed himself up against the bars until his head hit the bars above. "I do not expect much mercy. Do you recall when I rejected his offer to betroth that vile dwarf in swaddling to my little Lysa? I wanted a whole man for her, not some stunted half of what she deserved. I made no secret of what I thought of it."

Brynden remembered, all too well. Jon Arryn had lost half his teeth when he wed Lysa.

"I expect no mercy," Hoster said. "Not after that. Not from a Lannister, not from the King, not from the Gods." He sank back down the bars at his back. "I should have sent Baelish away the instant he challenged Cat's betrothed to a duel. I should not have allowed that boy to sully Lysa's honor the way he did. He repaid my generosity in letting him heal in my castle, by siring a bastard on her! I should have noticed its presence in her earlier, and given her the moon tea before ending it became dangerous."

Brynden did not have the heart to denounce with harsh words what his brother had done. So he changed the subject, still troubled. "She is safely in the Vale now, at least."

"And Cat waits in Riverrun for a husband who will never return, bearing a child who will never know a father. Once Kevan Lannister finishes his business at Riverrun, my boy Edmure will be carted off to the Wall for sure, or if loyal men help him escape, he will live as a fugitive. I have led my family into disaster, Brother. Family, duty, honor. I tried to follow the words of the family, but if you look at me, do you not see a failure?"

* * *

The spring rains were merciless and the way was shod with mud. The road grudgingly led the wagon train to the capital, over seven days of unending cramps, bruises, and cold. The only consolation was the woolen cloaks they gave the brothers, of humble make at that. Brynden spent most of his time in silence, watching the countryside pass slowly by and give way to the outskirts of King's Landing, and the dirt paths give way to cobbled roads worn with ruts. There were less soldiers around than there used to, as well. Almost all of them were from the Westerlands, with some Dornishmen and others amongst them. Hoster had suggested that the army was disbanding, a sign that the remaining rebels had been crushed. But the more Brynden looked, the more he disagreed. In one day the number of soldiers escorting the prison train had more than halved. In the wake of the War of the Ninepenny Kings, the royal army had dispersed over several weeks as their paths home branched off. This was nothing like it, and Stokeworth was not a major crossroads, certainly not enough to account for something like this.

Privately he hoped enough men got away to keep up the fight. Though this was scant comfort, he thought, as the prison train passed through King's Landing in a hail of filth the smallfolk hurled their way. Robert's war in the Stormlands had for a time cut off the food shipments from the Reach, and now it seemed they were inclined to repay the interruption in full. The soldiers, even the knights did little to protect the prisoners. More than twice something large and rotten smashed against Brynden's head, though more, smaller projectiles reached him as well. Hoster was sent spitting his mouth dry upon the straw when a bloodied, foul fish was flung into his face, hard.

Brynden was almost glad when the guards let the prisoners out of the cages but not their chains, and herded them to a squat, half-round tower in the shadow of Maegor's Holdfast. A balding man fiery yellow alchemist's robes awaited them at the iron door, red vials hanging at his belt as his sleeves billowed wildly in the wind.

"Welcome to your accommodations for the coming weeks," he said, tucking loose cloth into his belt. "You will find them quite the improvement, to be sure, if I saw those wagons right!" Some laughed.

Brynden kept with his brother, who kept to the outskirts of the prisoner throng. "He is right about that, at least," he whispered into Hoster's ear.

"Who are the most important of you?" the alchemist said. And when none answered or pointed, he said, "bring them forward." Nursing his bruises, Brynden only noticed the guards when they grabbed him and his brother and threw them down before the man who'd asked.

He winced. "No need to throw them down like that. It is so pointless." He sighed, as the Tully brothers nursed their wounds at his feet. "Rugen!"

A stout, unshaven gaol stepped forward, adjusting his belt and halfhelm. "Milord?"

"The black cells should suffice. Put them together in one cell instead of the usual."

Rugen slowly nodded. "Ah." He frowned.

"They are brothers," the alchemist slowly said. "I have a feeling it will not remain cramped for long, anyhow." Rugen did not seem to understand. Brynden looked at his brother to see if he did, but Hoster's face remained blank. Surely he knew what that meant? Perhaps he did not care.

Rugen pulled his gloves tight and pulled them up. "Come." He pulled out a key and laboriously turned it in the lock, until something clicked and the door fell open. Hoster followed him in as fast as the chains on his feet permitted, forcing Brynden to hurry behind to keep pace as the door thudded shut behind him. Rugen grabbed a torch from the wall, and raised it to an ash-blackened iron chandelier, where candles flickered over his dull helm. Content with the flame after a brief inspection, the gaol continued down a shallow spiral staircase.

Around every corner shadows spilled, for there were no windows left to let them out. Brynden followed carefully, laying down chained foot after chained foot, anxious to avoid tripping, and running his bound hands over the wall to his right to steady himself.

Lone voices muttered in his ear, but they could as well have been the wind, for no words he could understand lingered amongst the clinking of his chains, and his brother's grim footfalls that pulled him further and further along. Down and down they slowly went, passing door after door after door.

After what seemed an eternity of careful haste, Rugen pulled out a key and thrust it suddenly left into a keyhole. A single click and the door opened with nary a squeak to tell of it. With all the ills to be said of the King, he had seen to it that the hinges in his dungeons were kept well-oiled.

Although that also meant he used them often, Brynden reflected as Rugen led him and his brother into a circular chamber, the walls lined by doors each two arms' lengths apart. Rugen moved with a quickness that bespoke a thorough knowledge of the cells, and picked immediately the door second from the entrance. Yet another key he used this time, and the door swung aside to a cell thrice as wide as the way in itself. Hoster walked right in. Brynden could make out in the dim the red glint of an iron chamber pot just before Rugen slammed the door behind them, and locked it with a click.

"... What now?" Brynden said, pressing his face to the bars in the door just in time to see the goal and his light leave the outer-chamber.

"We wait," Hoster said from somewhere at his feet, his voice parched from thirst. He coughed. "You should sit, Brother. On the way to the block I doubt they will give you a chance for rest."

"I tire of sitting all day long in a cage, and now this?" Brynden leant on the door, almost hoping that it would fall away.

"You will be far more tired more if you go that way."

"If you insist." Brynden joined him on the floor and shuffled around until he found a spot where he could lean against the wall somewhat comfortably. He found a jug of water too in his rummaging, and tucked it under his arm.

Hoster coughed. "Brynden. I know well I am a dead man... But you may yet make it out of this alive." His words rang dry and ragged breaths hacked in his throat. Brynden fumbled in the dark for the water jug and handed it to his brother. Hoster drank and his coughing subsided. He continued. "I was wrong to try to force a wife on you. It was not my choice to make."

"It is forgiven in full, brother," Brynden said. "I hold no grudge."

"Brynden, swear... Swear that my children will know I am sorry for what I did to them. I gambled away their stations, perhaps their lives also. I acted rashly, and I neglected my duties as their father. I should have stopped Baelish's duel with Brandon before it started. I gave my daughter moon tea long after it was safe to do so, and wed her to an old man with half his teeth gone, into an alliance I should never have risked with my family at stake. After my wife Minisa died, I never was with my children when they needed me, and for that, I am sorry. Cat and Edmure look up to me for all my failures, but I would not be surprised if Lysa hates me. I would not blame her."

"She does not, Hoster. If she did, I would know, and she would tell you. You have your failures but when every die is cast, you are still her father."

"A failed father. One who lost his children everything, one who knows it. I wish I could see them now and tell them how sorry I am," Hoster sobbed. "Will you tell my children that?" The darkness hid him but his anguish was plain as day.

_If I do not die first, _Brynden thought. He remembered Riverrun, and the times he spent with his nephew and nieces. And there was no question. "I swear it."


	10. Chapter 9: What Path to Take

**Chapter 9**: _What Path to Take_

**Catelyn**

They came rowing in the dark, amidst the bitter smell of smoke. Balon Greyjoy and his shields drifted in through the Water Gate, as the Lannister camp lit the night behind them. His kinsmen, Aeron and Urrigon, followed in the next boat, all oars wrapped in black rags to disguise their coming, though after the battle of this night, it was hardly necessary anymore.

Catelyn leaned forward in the chair her father's guards had placed here, on the water stair. "Bring them in," she said. Edmure sat beside her, nodding quickly. She patted him on the back, and watched five men wade down the water stair, bearing long iron hooks in the torchlight. Her only brother was only ten namedays old, but days of learning for a lord never began nor ended, and this meeting was not one he could miss. No crown glinted on the Iron King's brow, for in its place a mere circlet of pale driftwood rested, tied together with blackened twine.

The King of Pyke was not a man to wait, and leapt into the water waist-deep, waving the hook-men aside as his men followed close behind. He climbed the water stair, still dripping. His men pulled the rowboat to a rest in the shallows, as their fellows from the other boats began filing from their own.

"Welcome, King Balon," Catelyn said. Balon stopped on the steps just below her, and bowed his head. "Your aid is most welcome."

Balon cocked his head. "I imagine that is an understatement, My Lady." His men knelt for a moment.

"You saved what remains to us. And for that, we are eternally grateful," she reassured him. "My father's men have rooms prepared for you and your bannermen." Balon's eyes lit up. "And a feast," she added. "In honor of your victory. I apologize now if our fare is humble. The war has emptied many a table in these lands, and the winter our stores."

Balon waved her off. "I take no issue. Warm food and a warm hearth after a battle are fare enough for any warrior of the Isles."

"Then come," she said, rising from her seat and beckoning little Edmure to do the same. She beckoned the King to follow and began the climb to the keep, quashing that feeling in her legs that screamed at her to stop. She could not afford to show weakness now.

She was still weary from the birth of her son two nights ago. She'd avoided stairs whenever she could, but being the only Tully of age in Riverrun demanded that she use them constantly, even in her current exhausted state. But as she reached the doors with Edmure hurrying at her side, she could breath a sigh of relief, as only a few corridors remained between her and the Great Hall itself.

Maester Luwin refused still to let her name her son. Eddard's son. She'd barely known the young Lord Stark when he departed again to battle after they were wedded. Out of duty she'd told the maester she wanted to name the child after her husband. But news had arrived of Eddard's death only days before, and he'd decided that naming the heir after a slain rebel leader was too great a risk. She still sometimes thought of perhaps naming him Brandon, but Luwin had convinced her that it was best to wait. If any name would arouse the murderous fury of the King, the name of any Stark was one of them.

A sharp turn in the hallway pointing left marked the northwards corner of Riverrun. The doors of the Great Hall came a few steps after, already held open by her father's guards, who had heard their footsteps. She nudged Edmure ahead to his seat, and let Balon come to her side at the threshold, where she let him take her hand.

The servants had arranged the four largest trestle tables in a broken square as customary in war, already laden with warm platters of bread, poultry, and cheese, and whatever else of feastworthy fare could be scrounged from the pantries.

Catelyn led the guests forward and made her way around the tables, Balon in tow. She took Hoster's seat by the hearth, gesturing Balon into the chair at her right-hand side, with little Edmure at her left. When all were seated, including the few lords and knights who remained of the host her father had sent south to fight, she pushed herself up again to stand.

"Welcome to Riverrun, guests," she said, going through the words her father had drilled into her year after year. "Take bread and salt, and enjoy our hospitality." Balon's men and his younger brothers paid only token attention to the bread and salt, taking a nip or so each before going straight for the bread, butter, cheese, and whatever red they could get their hands on. Edmure, likewise, reached immediately for the best on hand.

The King restrained himself though, taking merely a modest plate of bread and butter, before he tapped the table beside her. Catelyn looked up from her brother and raised her eyebrows.

King Balon smiled wryly. "My Lady, you should know we took some prisoners. An important one in particular, I think."

She nodded slowly, not daring to hope. If only it would be one that could be traded for her father and uncle? "Who?"

"A certain warden's brother," he said, toying with a rusted ring on his finger. "Kevan Lannister."

"Where is he kept?" Catelyn's heart began to race, weighing the possibilities. "Is he badly wounded?" It would be ill indeed for this hostage to die now. With Tywin Lannister, there was no knowing how far he would go in turn.

Balon laughed. "My men have him held in our camp north of the river, in chains but unscathed." He softened his tone and returned to his meal. "But if you do prefer him in the dungeons, that can be arranged, as long as it is my men that guard him."

"That would put me at rest, Your Grace," she said. She could scarcely believe it. Kevan Lannister, their prisoner? "Would you allow my men to trade him for my father?"

Balon stopped for a moment. "My priests considered giving him to the Drowned God..." Catelyn shivered. "But we decided he was more valuable to the faith alive."

Edmure looked up at her. "What about Father?"

Balon laughed, a little kinder. "You may trade the prisoner for him, but tell me first. The wind may blow a way that requires me to keep him."

So there was no time to lose. "I will send envoys on the morrow," she stated, waiting for a challenge.

Balon narrowed his eyes, then shrugged and joined his men to the feast. Catelyn permitted herself a quiet sigh of relief. Perhaps this luck would hold. Hope for continuing the war against the Targaryen King were not long for this world, and she was well aware of it. Judging by the dispositions of the Ironborn before her, merrily mingling with the highborn Riverlanders, they had not considered how ill things were. Or they were pretending not to. Peace was the only way out of this predicament alive, for all the rebels and the Ironborn who'd joined them, and the best way to assure clemency would be to betray the other. The question was, who would realize and act on that first? She quivered. What was she thinking? To betray the very men who saved Riverrun and now feasted at her father's tables?

_Mother forgive me_. There was no choice, though. If King Balon made no sign of making peace, he would have to be betrayed. His violent provocation against the Crown meant he could not make peace easily. Amends would be required.

And if he was less honorable than he acted, the simplest way to make them was betraying most of their remaining strongholds, which he was conveniently well-positioned to do. He had sent his brother with additional soldiers to Moat Cailin, and reinforced several castle garrisons. Handing the North and the Riverlands over to the Iron Throne would be Balon's best chance to receive mercy, and it would be mere child's play for him to do it. Catelyn looked at the ironborn arrayed at the tables, but could discern nothing below the surface.

There was no honorable way to make peace in the absence of Balon's approval without risking his retribution, she noted. Regardless of whether Balon was honorable or treacherous, betrayal was the surest path to mercy for her family. Catelyn ran butter over her bread and made a show of eating, though inside her appetite had died.

She found her hand on her brother's shoulder. He kept working away at his food, silent. Father was gone, and with him gone it fell to her to find a way to save the family. _Family, duty, honor_. Though there was no way to follow all three, Catelyn knew what she would choose.

* * *

"Winterfell is the safest place for Edmure and your son, Lady Catelyn," Luwin said. "And yourself." He glanced nervously at the door and windows of his dim quarters. "Riverrun is no place for you, not while the Lannisters continue to prepare their siege engines. It would be best for you to leave now, before Ser Barristan and the Freys can block the way, before King Balon can betray you."

Catelyn shook her head. "I cannot negotiate my father's release from Winterfell. Nor that of my uncle."

Luwin threw down his arms in exasperation. "Then appoint someone else to do it. I have to be honest, My Lady, the last time a leading rebel lord was captured, his hall was burned to the ground and his wife killed. I will not risk your life on this, when, say, Rodrik Mallister would have as much hope for success as you."

"I am not Ellyn Tarbeck," Catelyn said. "I know the stories. How she vainly taunted Lord Lannister, from atop a castle ready to collapse under its own weight. I would try no such thing, nor are Riverrun's walls so poorly kept."

"That changes nothing. He would not respect you any more than Rodrik Mallister. And you are still not safe here. Winterfell is deep in Stark lands, surrounded by loyal houses. Think of Edmure! And your son? He needs to be there, and you need to be there for him."

"A wet nurse would do just the same."

"Sooner or later, the floodgates at the Twins will open, and then there _will _be no way out, whether you trade Kevan Lannister for your father or not. There is no safety here, not with the Ironborn, nor while King Aerys reigns on his twisted throne. If he decides on a whim to treat at Riverrun as he did at Duskendale, you will die. Is that what you want? Your son, as if losing his father was not enough, to lose his mother as well, pointlessly at that?"

"I don't know." Catelyn looked out the window at the siege towers. They were only slightly shorter than the walls, and even now carpenters could be heard pounding away with their mallets. Lord Roland Crakehall, though unwilling to attempt an assault after she'd told him Kevan was their prisoner, was not afraid of finishing preparations to bolster his position during the ongoing negotiations.

"Perhaps... perhaps you are right. But can I trust a man in my place to do his utmost to secure my father's release?"

"Your father has loyal men here still," Luwin pleaded. "Would you have their sacrifices, the living and dead, diminished so vainly? What would your father say? Think of the words of your house. Remain here, and you would abandon them all. Your greatest honor-bound duty is to your son and brother. They need you more than your father, so please, please take them to Winterfell where you will all be safe."

Catelyn nodded slowly, thinking of them both. The more she thought of it, traveling to Winterfell was the wisest course. _Father forgive me_. "I do not believe I have any choice, then."

Luwin nodded gravely. "No, you do not."


	11. Chapter 10: Justice

**Chapter 10**: _Justice_

**Jon**

The ride to the Red Keep nearly matched in splendor the tourney at Harrenhal, where it all began. In a fashion. Jon felt uneasy, more than he had when Rhaegar crowned Lyanna Stark with a circlet of blue winter roses. King's Landing welcomed the guards with dried flowers and cheers, and the prisoners with a hail of filth. A flower by chance got caught in his hair, and he felt ashamed, that he had failed to protect his friend. He brushed it out with his free hand. He and his companions had dressed their best for this occasion, as did Tygett Lannister, who was basking in the applause which third sons so rarely receive. The soldiery behind merely made sure their arms and armor were well-kept before they passed through the gates.

Jon saw a small number of guards and knights were arrayed to greet them at the castle gates, as the procession began the ascent up Aegon's Hill. A small escort of what knights accompanied Tygett Lannister at the front, those his elder brother was willing to part with, anyway, and Jonothor Darry rode beside him, resplendent in a new white silk cloak draped over his shoulders. Jon followed with Oberyn Martell at his side. The Dornish knights were close behind with Ser Myles Mooton and Raymun Darry, whom they had gotten along with quite well on the way to the capital. The common soldiery and the prisoners came last, falling behind for lack of mounts.

It was not long until the leading men reached the top. Qarlton Chelsted shook Tygett's hand as long as he dismounted and a groom came forth and took his horse. Jonothor Darry limped right past. Jon glared at the Hand as he came forward. Qarlton had replaced him as Hand after the defeat at the Battle of the Bells, and Jon still remembered the humiliation the King had forced on him. Aerys was pleased to whip the chain of office in his face, drawing blood, and calling it lenience as he bestowed the chain on Chelsted, whom he had chosen at whim.

Jon forced himself to smile before Chelsted now, and dismounted, though inside he felt like riding the Hand over instead.

"Welcome, Lord Connington," Chelsted said. Jon shook his hand, stiffly. "I did not expect you to return so soon, what with the Ironborn joining the Rebellion..."

"I have come to ensure the prisoners are used for their due purpose," Jon said.

"You will have opportunity to do so, to be sure," Qarlton said. "The King has called for a meeting to welcome you within the hour."

"I understand," Jon said, and walked past him to Ser Manly Stokeworth, Commander of the City Watch.

"Ah, Jon," Manly said, seeing him approach. "You should be more polite to the Lord Hand, you know."

"Perhaps. How go things, friend" Jon said. "I have some matters of importance I would discuss with you."

"Alone?"

Jon looked around to make sure no one was in earshot, and said, "Other things later. But for now, can you find accommodations for my men? Three thousand men of them, I believe. I recall half your men left with Rhaegar. That means the barracks up here can house them? I would prefer them not to stay in the city, what with the thieves and whores prowling down there at night."

"Indeed." Manly scratched his head. "It could be done. It would not be comfortable, mind you, but I will see to it the best I can. I understand that you are a busy man, so I will not hinder you further." He made a thin smile. "You can look for me at my mens' barracks. Just ask for me, and they should be willing enough to find me if you ask."

Jon shook his hand. "I will." He looked around for Willem Darry, the Master-at-arms. Upon realizing he was not there, he pushed past the gate, as Manly strode away to speak with the troops.

He walked into the inner courtyard. Horse after horse trailed off to the stables from the gateway behind him. Then he remembered what he was here to do. Tygett Lannister would be busy with the prisoners for some time. He looked up at the sky. It was just past midday, so there would be time enough.

Willem Darry usually spent the afternoon in the training yard, beating skill into the guards of the royal family... and demanding they look their best. Jon straightened his tunic, and set off to find him.

He walked about aimlessly for some time, as he had so many times with his Prince, the odd guard and servant standing aside as he went. He found himself retracing his steps on the way Rhaegar usually went, back when the King insisted that Willem teach him daily, after he returned from his tutelage. Jon frowned. They were but boys back then, innocent of the harsh realities that caved in Rhaegar's chestplate. Rhaegar knew back then, that something was wrong with his father, but it never came clearer to mind now. That Aerys had _dared _insult the memory of his firstborn son by disinheriting his heirs…

Jon smothered the anger burning in his heart, as he stepped past a lazing guard into the training yard, where the veritable giant of his youth stood, roaring at a short squire taking turns at the quintain. The sack hanging from it swung around and just barely grazed the boy in the back when he stopped to savor a successful tilt.

"Expect worse when you try that in battle," Willem grumbled. A boy of ten or so climbed on a stool to reset the arm for another go, but Jon scurried forward and did it for him.

"Thank you, my lord," he said, jumping down and sitting back against the foot of the quintain. Jon patted him on the head and walked over to Willem, who had finished his lecture and was helping the squire back onto his pony, handing him a lance.

"Good day."

Willem nudged the squire back to practice, then turned. "I see you have finally learned what I've been trying to tell you all these years about appearances." Jon raised his eyebrows. _That is him, alright_. "I heard what happened to your friend," he added. Seeing Jon's face, he quickly said, "That was an understatement. I know he was a brother to you, as a son he was to me."

"We can mourn together later," Jon replied. "But there is something important we must discuss."

"The disinheritance?" Willem watched the squire dodge the sack. "I..." He looked around nervously. "I think it is a great shame the King has done. Almost as bad as murdering the Starks when they showed up."

Truth be told, it was worse, but Jon didn't press it. "You fear the Spider has spies watching?"

Willem nodded slowly. "I think the guard you passed over there might be one of them."

"So where would you talk with me instead?"

Willem pointed at the ground. "Here. Quietly. And give the two boys there a word or two while you're at it, so nothing looks out of the ordinary."

Jon looked over Willem's shoulders at the Great Hall, which towered over the grounds. The King would be there, surrounded by his lickspittles. Hopefully daggers soon enough. "About the execution of the two elder Starks..." He blinked. "How do I put it... He will be doing it again soon. You see, my party arrived with dozens of highborn prisoners, and Tygett Lannister will have arranged their new lodgings in the dungeons shortly. You know what the King will want of them. Screams and smoke and soot to warm his blackened heart."

Willem winced, frowning. He pointed at the practicing squire, who had just narrowly missed his target. "You! Don't lean forward with a lance couched under your arm!" Turning back to Jon, he said, "If you were so concerned for their safety, why did you bring them here?"

"Tywin Lannister sent Tygett to do that. I came because I hoped to try prevent the worst from happening."

"I cannot help you much, son. Say what you will of the King, but he is strong-willed. He will not be swayed."

"There are many loyal men, your eldest brother and three of his sons among them, who remain in rebel hands. I would be willing to sway the King with more than words, if it means saving their lives."

Willem looked at him warily. "I worry for you."

Jon slowly took a few steps back to the practicing squire. "Do you not think something must be done?"

Willem nodded slowly. He strode over to his pupil and passed him some instruction, then walked back. When they were far enough again, he said, "If it saves my kin, I can look away from what you do with the King, unless his blood, or that of good men, comes seeping under my door. But I cannot promise that my brother will do the same. You have spoken to him, have you not?"

Jon nodded. "Jonothor has agreed to much of the same, as has Raymun, your nephew."

"I know their names, Jon," Willem said. He brushed dust off his padded vest, and tightened his gloves. "You may wonder why your plans have not shocked me." He looked behind him. "Truth be told, Rhaegar spoke to me as well of what he intended to do after he defeated Robert. He sighed. "That did not work as planned, but I still agree with him. His father is as mad as ever, and without his old friend to restrain him, there is no telling how far he will go in the future."

_He still thinks Tywin Lannister wants to serve the Realm_, Jon thought, cursing that he'd forgotten. They'd fought together in the War of the Ninepenny Kings, and ever since they'd been on somewhat good terms. But not friends, and hopefully that distinction would serve to keep him on the righteous path. "I think Tywin Lannister may have revived his friendship with the King," Jon said after some consideration. "His Grace chose Tywin's son Ser Jaime to deliver some sort of message to the camp. I saw him depart, no doubt after passing something on to his father. Perhaps they have made some deal. It would not surprise me. They do share a certain affinity for cruelty, after all."

"So you did not trust Tygett to perhaps aid you in your endeavor?"

Jon shook his head. "I can trust no Lannister."

"I grown fond of Tywin's boy. He is not the sort I would think to be a plotter."

"I know him as well as you do, and he is not the sort I would expect to disobey the wishes of his father."

"He would not have accepted the white cloak if he was a mere pawn."

"But who knows? Perhaps it was arranged? Perhaps this was a sham to trick Prince Rhaegar into showing his hand too early? You do know His Grace was suspicious of his son's intentions."

Willem shrugged. "If it was an act, I doubt Lord Lannister agreed to it. He could never have stomached putting his son in a white cloak. The oaths of a Kingsguard are for life, and Jaime's name would be stained if he did not live them out." Willem took a swig from the wineskin under his belt. Putting it back, he said, "So what is it exactly what you intend to do, with regards to the King?"

"You summed it up about as well as I could hope to," Jon said. "I give you my word he will not be harmed, merely coerced."

"You tell me you want to protect important hostages, and I know it is in part for my brother, but surely there is more to it?"

"I was just about to get to it. You should perhaps give your pupil a word there," Jon said, taking care not to point. "He landed a clever one there with the lance."

Willem, who had been watching as he listened, nodded, and strode away for a good time. Jon looked around, waiting. He looked at the guard, who noticed he was looking and waved, before averting his gaze. Jon looked at the Tower of the Hand. If not for the King's pettiness, he would be there now. Rhaegar's wife and children resided a few glances away, at the second window right from the King's chambers in the corner of Maegor's Holdfast. Jon remembered the time when Rhaegar waved down at him, telling him his wife was with child. Rhaenys was born months later, the splitting image of her mother, who was bedridden half the year after. And not a year ago Rhaegar's infant son became heir to the Iron Throne, until the King saw fit to filch away the inheritance, and give it to Viserys instead...

"What were you going to say?" Willem had returned. He looked over Jon's shoulder. "Elia will be up there by now."

Jon turned around. "I intend to restore her children to their rightful place."

"In the line of succession," Willem ventured.

Jon nodded. "Indeed. But, trouble is, not all of us are too fond of it. Ser Jonothor Darry only agreed to it because it involved protecting his family."

"I would speak to him, but he is a stubborn man. It would do no good," Willem replied. "And it would be best if I am not implicated, if you fail."

"You think it is possible?"

Willem put a hand on Jon's shoulder. "Many things are possible, Jon. I pray you will succeed, but it is not for me to decide what the Gods shall choose."

"If you are not going to help us, do you promise to remain silent?"

"By the Seven," Willem put his hand at his heart. "I promise you that." Trumpets from above rang in the air, drawing their gaze at the castle above. It was the King's summons of all those who mattered… to the Throne Room. As Chelsted had said, one hour after they'd arrived. Still looking at the Great Hall, Willem took a deep breath. He looked Jon in the eye. "Hurry."

* * *

"I talked with my uncle Lewyn," Oberyn whispered in Jon's ear. Jon slowed down as other nobles jostled past to the great iron doors to the Throne Room.

"What did he say?"

"I could only get a few words with him before he was summoned to the King, but he is ready to help." Oberyn shot back. Jon brushed his fingers on his lips to signal for silence. It was too risky to speak further, with all the men around them. Jon looked up at the ceiling towering above, as they finally passed the doors. He had always felt that the word _room _sold this place cheap. The Iron Throne towered over the throngs crowded below.

"We should split up to deflect suspicion," Jon murmered. Oberyn nodded, and pushed his way off to the right. Jon went left, where he saw Tygett Lannister standing near the foot of the throne, with the Hand of the King. Rhaegar's father was seated above, a mockery of the kings before him.

Jon pushed his way to Tygett, as the Hand called for silence.

"What is this?" Jon hissed in the Lannister's ear.

"His Grace wishes to give the rebel leaders a taste of justice," Tygett murmured back, his face coldly still. "I believe you know what happens next."

"Don't you realize what this will mean for our allies who have been captured?" Jon shot back.

Tygett glared back. "It is not my place to question His Grace's will, Lord Connington." Just then, the King began to speak. "My friends," he said, standing. "And foes." He made a grand, sweeping gesture that rested at last pointing at four men in chains. "Welcome to King's Landing. I know some of you have come from far and wide to see this day, and others have fallen on the way. But you all shall see what you came for: Justice." Lannister men in crimson dragged the prisoners to the foot of the throne, and threw them to the floor, where burn marks had been seared deep into the marble. "Lord Hoster Tully," Aerys said, his long untrimmed nails pointed like spears at the Lord of Riverrun. "or raising your sword against your King, I strip your family of its titles and sentence you to death." Jon shook, angrily, as Lord Tully hung his head, whether in shame or in fear. He had come all this way, only for the King to undo everything. Philip Cafferen sobbed at the floor, as Aerys turned to him next. "Lord Phillip Cafferen, for turning your cloak at Summerhall, I strip you of your titles and sentence you to death!"

"Your Grace! I beg you," Jon said, stepping into the clear, arming the Hand aside when he tried to bar the way. "Please, spare these traitors until your loyal bannermen can be recovered from the rebels! Do you know what execution will mean for them?"

"Justice, my old Hand." Aerys smiled thinly. "Do you mean to see these villains depart unscathed?" Jon's jaw dropped, and he looked around the men around him. If they cared, they were doing a good job of hiding it, the cowards. Aerys nodded slowly, cocking his head. "I thought so." He thrust his claws at Lyonel Corbray, who, disheveled, nursed his bruises but kept his pride in silence. "Lord Lyonel Corbray, traitor, the six months you ruled Heart's Home were six too many. I hereby sentence you to death." Jon bowed his head to the King, and retreated from the clear, blood pumping through his face. How dare the King be so callous of the lives of his comrades, and the men around him so indifferent? Although it was undeniable Phillip Cafferen deserved death, surely the lives of Lord Darry and his sons were of greater concern?

The King continued. "Harys Grandison, I recall we served together in the Blackfyre Rebellion. Why did you betray me at Summerhall? Why?" Harys trembled on his knees, but spilled no words or tears. Aerys looked around. "These men disgust me. Burn this traitor with the others. The rest of the prisoners shall await judgement until tomorrow."

_No_…! Jon thought. But the King's word was law here, _for now_. Guards with rope bound the four men together with difficulty and then to a metal link embedded in the floor, kicking Philip until he could not muster the breath to sob. Harys's composure at last gave way as Acolytes in flaming-yellow robes came forward with earthen jars, and doused him and all his tears in jade-green liquid. A guard unwound a rope, and laid it down from the slowly-spreading puddle of wildfire to the foot of the throne. Rossart strode forward with a lit torch, motioning the crowd to stand back.

"Stop!" Qarlton Chelsted rushed forward and grabbed Rossart's arm, just as the alchemist was readying to light the fuse. He looked up at the King hopefully. "Your Grace, behead these traitors instead. We need not curse this room with yet more such cruelty as this."

Aerys waved him off. "I will not profane this throne with blood." Qarlton paled, backing away. Rossart looked back at his king, beaming. Aerys nodded quickly. "Do it."

As the "Wisdom" stepped back to admire the show, the flame burned its way through the rope to the four bound men, whose screams already echoed in Jon's ear. Then they were all set alight, and he felt a great hot wind blowing against his face and whistling in his ear. For a moment Jon's eyes could see only white, and a roaring began that drowned the cries of the men within. The fire ebbed a little, and Jon could just make out four black _things _writhing, twisting in the midst of the flames like worms. The crowd, which for the moments before had been holding its breath, now backed away hastily from the fire. But the King and his attendants merely gazed into the inferno which roared in Jon's ear like a maddened dragon. Soon the charred corpses within ceased their twitching, but the fire, like a lion with its paws stretched over its slain prey, continued to roar through the hall.

"I trust you know now what retribution treason shall be rewarded with," Aerys announced. He fluttered his hand as if nothing significant had happened. "You are dismissed."


End file.
